


an ode to l'manburg

by blue000jay



Series: drabbles [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Doctor Who Fusion, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Dream Sequences, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Marriage, Mentioned Vomit, Mine now, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queerplatonic Relationships, Sick Character, Suicidal Thoughts, Tales From The SMP, Wingfic, Wings, i took canon and said no
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:21:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 50,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28092327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue000jay/pseuds/blue000jay
Summary: Tommy's in trouble. / "You want some blue?" / Four boys stand alone in an abandoned throne room.(A collection of flash fiction/short stories that I do to practice writing, and figured I'd post. Ranges from canonical situations to AUs. Yes, I take requests.)
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, Antfrost/VelvetIsCake (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/Floris | Fundy, Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound/Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, Implied Schlatt/Quackity, Karl Jacobs/Sapnap, Niki | Nihachu & Ranboo, Niki | Nihachu & Wilbur Soot, Ranboo & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & Ranboo, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: drabbles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2103231
Comments: 315
Kudos: 938





	1. baby rage

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this is a collection of writing exercises i do over time to practice, and i liked some of them so i'll be posting them periodically! if you enjoy them, be sure to leave kudos and comment :)
> 
> and if there's something you want to read, let me know! maybe i'll get inspired and write a bit on it :) 
> 
> follow my twt! @toobbo_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this before tommy's exile! i also totally predicted the probabtion, haha.

Tommy’s in trouble.

There are more than a few eyes trained on him at the moment. They’re sat in Fundy’s house-- it’s currently the one with the most room, a table being set up for this impromptu meeting that had been called that morning, the word spread out by communicator to all citizens of L’Manberg. Niki is to Tommy’s direct left, Ranboo beside her. He won’t look Tommy in the eye, no matter how many friendly smiles Tommy had thrown his way that morning. Quackity, Tubbo, and Fundy are all in one corner, talking quietly amongst themselves. Phil is noticeably absent, and when Tommy checks his communicator there are no new messages from his dad. 

He pretends like it doesn’t sting a bit.

Puffy enters, heads shooting up as she does, a bit breathless.

“Sorry!” She says, the smile dropping off her face some. Tommy doesn’t mind Puffy-- she’s nice, sure. Mischievous, definitely. American and a woman? Well, eh. Karl pulls out the chair beside him for her and she takes her seat, leaving the rest of the table for the three in the corner.

The cabinet. He should be a part of that, shouldn’t he?

That thought dawns too late.

Tubbo catches his eye as they make their way over, and suddenly Tommy’s distinctly aware he’s in trouble again.

“So,” Tubbo says, gingerly sitting down across the table from Tommy exactly. “We’ve got a new wall. New perimeters.” 

“And the L’Mantree, technically,” Niki pipes up, tipping her head toward one of the windows. Faintly, Tommy can see the top of it over the obsidian.

“He burnt down Manifoldland! And my house!” Jack says from his spot against the wall, throwing a hand out. “The donation trees!” 

“Look, I think--” Tubbo cuts in and starts to say something, but it’s lost as Puffy starts to make her claim.

“I think we should just expand the borders ourselves, it’ll--”

“I don’t have any more obsidia--”

“ENOUGH!” Tubbo’s shout comes as a shock to all of them. Quackity flinches a bit to his left. The room is silent. Tommy doesn’t dare open his mouth. 

He wonders when the last time he and Tubbo hung out, just the two of them. Before the final battle, for sure. Before the presidency. Before the explosion and everything. 

“Will you all shut up,” Tubbo says, rubbing his head slightly. He looks tired. Tommy wonders how long he’s had the shadows under his eyes. “Please. Look. We know why Dream started this, he explained it himself. That’s the first thing we’re here to address. Tommy.” Tommy’s spine snaps up straight, his slouch disappearing as everyone turns to look at him. “Care to explain George’s house?”

Well, shit. “It wasn’t just me,” he begins, and he can see Ranboo shuffle slightly in his peripheral vision. Tubbo just sighs.

“Tommy,” he says, slowly sitting back down in his seat again. “What did you do?” 

“It wasn’t supposed to catch the whole thing on fire,” Tommy says meekly. He feels like a child being scolded, and he hates it. “Really. It was an accident. I didn’t know Dream would go batshit over it.” 

“He took half our land,” Niki says from beside Tommy again. “He asked where the borders were, but completely disregarded anything I said.” 

“He doesn’t think of us as legitimate,” Tubbo says, and Tommy narrows his eyes a bit. Of course they’re legitimate-- they just took the country back from a fucking dictator. Yeah, it was a bit unorthodox, but technically they didn’t even kill Schlatt. He died on his own-- if anything, the transfer of power was quite peaceful. Except for Wilbur blowing everything up, but that was probably unavoidable Tommy thinks, even if the thought of his brother makes his gut roll uncomfortably. He glances around the room, wondering if Wilbur’s even here. 

Tubbo presses on. “He says the treaties don’t hold up anymore. Which is a problem, because we’ve just lost what we were fighting for. And it doesn’t help that some people aren’t able to foster that peace.”

“It was an accident.”

“An ‘accident’ that might reignite a war, Tommy!”

“This isn’t my fault, so stop insinuating it is!” 

“But it IS your fault!” Tubbo slams his hands onto the table and suddenly the room is deathly, deathly silent.

“Excuse me?” Tommy asks, and he pretends his voice doesn’t crack a bit.

“You burnt down George’s house,” Tubbo starts, “and you messed with Bad’s house, and you’ve antagonized every  _ single _ person who could possibly want to start beef with us lately. If we go to war, it is going to be your fault now! I didn’t want this! This was supposed to be peaceful! Instead, you run off, not listening to me even though I’m in charge, I’m the president, I make the rules--” Tubbo chokes slightly at this, but comes back with even more fervor. “I’m not letting our country blow up again, especially since it’ll take us with it!” 

“Tubbo, that’s ridiculous.” Tommy stands, gesturing around. “Look at us, we’re not fucking weak. Even if we start another war, we’ve got numbers on our side and power--”

“THERE IS NOT GOING TO BE ANOTHER WAR!” Tubbo shouts, and his chest is heaving so heavily Tommy’s sort of frightened he’s going to pass out. They’re staring at each other, and Tubbo almost looks frantic. “No one… no one is going to die. No one. No one is going to get blown up or killed or--” Tubbo sucks in a breath and Tommy thinks maybe something is terribly wrong and maybe, just maybe, he has noticed too late. 

“I’m stripping you of your title,” Tubbo says, and beside him Niki’s hand flies up to her mouth. Right. They have an audience.

“What?” Tommy asks, and he fights the urge to glance around but does so anyways. Everyone in the room looks slightly uncomfortable, and slightly shocked.

“You’re on probation from vice presidential duties,” Tubbo says, and the next remark comes out biting. “Not like you’ve been doing them anyways.” He shoves himself back and away from the table, running a hand through his hair and taking a moment to smooth down his shirt. The movement is so uniquely foriegn to Tommy that he almost double-takes, and for a moment there’s a flicker of someone else in those actions. Someone who is definitely dead, and six feet under to boot. “I’m going to speak with Dream,” Tubbo says, and no one moves a muscle. “Fundy, Quackity, come with me. Niki, you too.” Tommy can’t move. He’s frozen, even as the room seems to burst back into life as Niki stands up from her seat and Fundy and Quackity move from their spots. Jack is whispering to Eret. Ranboo is staring at his communicator, and Tommy’s gaze flicks desperately from person to person. None of them will meet his eyes.

“Tubbo--” he tries, desperately hoping that maybe this one last time something will poke through. Nothing seems to hit, though, and Tubbo is glaring at him. 

“Shut  _ up _ , Tommy,” he says. “You’ve done enough.”

And then he’s gone.

People file out slowly, whispering among themselves. Tommy can’t find it in himself to move. His hands clenched into fists on the table, nails digging into his palms as he stares at the grain of the wood and wills himself not to cry. Something ruffles his hair and it might be Wilbur, it might be a draft, but either way he doesn’t move until everyone, until everything is gone. 

Tommy thinks he may have just ruined what little good was left in his life.

When he finally leaves, it’s to go find Phil.


	2. ghostbur bullshit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the lanterns over l'manberg, and the people who made them. a look at fundy-wilbur-phil.

L’Manburg looks nicer at night.

Fundy’s always thought that-- even in the days before the walls were torn down, before they were even properly built. His favorite spot has consistently been the path just above L’Manburg’s land, the path that looks out on their home and allows them a view of everything they care for. From there, he can see his whole world. The view has changed over the years, yes. From tiny walls that he remembers being much bigger as a child, to the huge blackstone and concrete ones that Eret erected. When those were around, Fundy would escape up here, no one watching him carefully enough to stop him from going out at night. He’d been trained in the art of war anyways-- that’s what happens when you’re raised in the middle of one. You learn how to defend yourself early. But he’d sneak out, slip up the path and sit on the hill and stare down at the walls surrounding their home. Protecting. Concealing.

The soft glow of lanterns light his way this time around as he traces the path he’s used one thousand and one times over.

When he reaches the top, the place where he sits, however, he is not alone.

Wilbur has been a bit of an anomaly, lately. He’d arrived only a few days after his death, able to float, unable to touch. His skin, pale and translucent, gives way to a clumsy smile and distant memories of a man Fundy once thought he knew. Wilbur as a ghost is.. different. He talks about death far too much and smiles even more, a strange sort of giddiness. He hadn’t known Fundy was older, when he’d first arrived. He’d asked after everyone, Niki, Phil, Techno, Tommy, and his baby. 

Imagine his surprise when Fundy ripped off his hat to show him the familiar orange ears, and then stormed away.

He hasn’t been avoiding Wilbur, really. He’d helped him build his little hut and the carved out room in the sewers, tagging along a few times when Tubbo had run into him and stopped for a chat. The missing memories and uncanny, child-like glee Wilbur possessed was just sort of creepy, and Fundy couldn’t help but just want to stay away from his neglectful dead father. He doesn’t even  _ remember _ being neglectful. 

Fundy hates himself for the fact he’s still angry with him.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, staring down at the ghost of his dad and at the materials scattered around.

“Oh! Fundy,” Wilbur says, tipping his head and greeting him with that ever-happy smile. “Hello.”

“What are you doing here?” Fundy asks again, eyeing him carefully and debating turning around. He could head back down the path, but he’d really hoped to be able to stay up here and work on dreamon things for Tubbo, he always thought best alone--

“Making chinese lanterns,” Wilbur says quietly, and then there’s a flicker of light as Wilbur strikes a match. He holds it gently to the inside of one of the pieces of… something scattered about, and then gently pushes it up, into the sky. It sort of piques Fundy’s interest, and while he’s not about to stay, he at least has the decency to not just ignore his dad like Tommy has a tendency to do.

“Chinese lanterns?” He asks, and Wilbur nods slightly, patting the ground beside him. Fundy’s painfully reminded of a time not-so-long ago when he was smaller, and this was a riverbank, and Wilbur’s smile was so much more than it is now. He moves, feet bringing him to the spot and gently eases himself to the ground. His fingers twist in his lap. 

“Phil and I used to make them,” Wilbur says, and Fundy’s brain goes  _ oh _ .

\----

“Dad?”

A voice echoes through the halls, and Phil turns from his spot in front of the sword display, ears ringing slightly at the sudden noise. He wrinkles his nose, at first thinking it’s Tommy (who is certainly supposed to be asleep by now after all they’ve done tonight) but no. Instead, he’s greeted by a flop of brown hair and a squinty face, bundled up in his winter pajamas. 

“Hey, Wil,” Phil says, sheathing the sword he’d been working on cleaning and gently bringing it up to settle it back onto the display. “You’re up late. Everyone else has already gone to bed. Even Techno.”

“No way,” Wilbur says, and there’s the sound of slippered feet padding to Phil’s side. He turns, crouching down and then coming back up with an armful of boy. 

“You’re getting a bit too large for this,” Phil teases, hoisting Wilbur to sit on his hip. Wilbur just rests his head on his shoulder, staring insistently at the space in front of them as they make their way down the hall. “One day, you’ll be taller than me, I bet.”

“Do you think I’ll be taller than Tommy?” Wilbur asks with a fierce sort of competitiveness coming into his tone. Phil can’t help himself-- he laughs.

“Maaaaaybe,” he says, letting the word draw out. 

“What about Techno?” 

“Oh, definitely.” Phil turns towards the balcony, shoving open the double door with one arm and shivering slightly as the cool air hits them. Down below is a sea of color and lights, the remnants of the winter festival celebrations hanging over the entire city of Port-aux-Francais. Phil’s kingdom-- his empire. The place he’s making safe for his boys to rule over one day after they’ve explored the world. Wilbur’s eyes are wide, reflecting the lights from this view and staring down at the houses and people. “Techno’s strong, but he won’t get too much taller,” Phil finishes, shifting to the railing and giving them both a better view. “You, however, are going to sprout like a tomato plant.”

“I don’t like tomatoes,” Wilbur complains, tipping his head to look at Phil now instead. “They’re slimy.”

“Peas, then,” Phil amends, and his arms are starting to ache so he gently moves to set Wilbur down, letting him get steady on his feet before turning to the side. He grabs some of the supplies that someone had left out here earlier from the party, sitting himself down on the floor of the balcony and watching out of the corner of his eye as Wil peers over the edge of the railing, then comes back to sit with him. They’re quiet for the moment as Phil folds and tucks and wraps, finally emerging with a perfectly shaped balloon. 

“Can I try?” Phil hands over the materials without hesitation, hiding his smile in the collar of his jacket as he watches Wilbur messily fold, fingers stiff with the cold but still agile enough to make a messy approximate shape. His sons are smart-- they learn just by watching. Once they both have their balloons, Phil brings out his small flint and steel, then brings them both to the edge.

“Come here,” he says gently, and Wilbur follows, resting his arms on the railing as Phil lights their lanterns. One of his hands comes out and Phil settles the lantern he’d made into it, his own flickering in his palm. “On the count of three, we launch them. Alright?”

“Okay,” Wilbur says, and his eyes are shining. 

“One, two-"

\----

“--three.” 

Fundy watches as the lantern he’d just folded into shape takes its place in the sky, bumbling along with the others. He’d had to try a few times, the discarded and failed attempts lying in the dirt, but Wilbur had been patient and showed him how to do it twenty times over. If you looked hard enough you could see a slight lopsidedness to his balloon, making its way over L’Manburg’s new buildings, but the final product wasn’t that terrible.

“It’s beautiful,” Wilbur says beside him, sighing lightly. “This nation we’ve made.” 

_ You made _ , Fundy thinks, turning his head to stare at his dead father and watch as the light passes over his cheek, creates shadows on his face, hides the bloody wound in his middle through tricks of light. He stays there for a moment, and then there’s a pang of anger and upset in his gut that is too strong to ignore. He turns away, burying his head into his hands and willing himself not to cry-- not to grieve for the things that could never be and will never come to pass. You can’t change the past, Fundy reminds himself. You can’t make him out to be a good father now, when the truth is, he did not care. You cannot. The pang in his gut burns deeper, twisting his stomach into a stone, and he buries his head deeper into his hands. If anyone’s going to hear him sob, it may as well be the one causing him the most pain. 

Beside him, Wilbur hums a familiar tune, and above, lanterns fly. 


	3. blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> niki & wilbur :) a flowershop AU for sleepy bois, and niki works at a coffee shop across the street! not inherently romantic, btw.

“You want some blue?”

His voice startles her.

“Excuse me?” Swinging around, she tucks a strand of errant hair behind her ear. Her fingers are elegant, he notes. Like they’re used to holding pens and tools and feathers. Or maybe flower stems. He offers her one, watching as her face contorts a little in confusion.

“Blue,” he says. He’s not sharp about it, but he does keep his voice clinical. “Blue flowers, more specifically. We have hydrangeas in blue, delphiniums, a few hyacinth bunches, bellflowers, forget-me-nots, Love in Mist. Morning glories, too, but those aren’t blue right now. Just green. I’d offer you a rose but unfortunately, those don’t come in blue naturally.”

“Why blue?” She asks, shaking her head some and accepting the singular aster he’d offered her. Her fingers close around it just like he’d expected, graceful and delicate. 

“Blue is the original color of desire, of love,” he explains, watching as her eyes follow as he moves around a pot of orchids, their stems sharp and caging her face between them. Her eyebrow perks up. “They’re the symbols of the metaphysical, of the race to reach the unreachable. They mean hope. They give hope.”

“I take this to mean that blue is your favorite color, then,” she quips, glancing down at the aster in her hand. He heads into an aisle, grinning privately to himself when she follows him, albeit an aisle over. He can see her through the greenery and shelving still, eyes catching occasionally as they do this odd dance. 

“Not at all,” he says. “Yellow, actually. But I think blue suits you best.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I need to figure out a good color for a new sweater,” she says, stopping halfway through the aisle and coming up the shelves. The fingers of one of her hands grips the shelving and he stops, turning to face her as she peers through the slots. 

“So you gave me blue… why?” She asks, and he shrugs. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

“Oh, certainly,” he says, delighting in how her cheeks immediately flush. “But it’s more of the fact that you seemed sad. The blue takes it away.” 

“Takes away what?”

“The sadness.”

“Isn’t blue supposed to be a sad color?” He rolls his head back and groans, and when he catches sight of her again she just looks confused.

“Didn’t you hear me before?” He asks, leaning forward. They’re a breath apart through the shelving, and his fingers land to rest on hers. It’s awfully intimate. “Blue is the original color of love. Desire. Of hope.”

Her eyes peer into his, a wonderful shade of brown that matches the rich earth around them. “So blue is hopeful,” she says quietly, and he nods.

“Exactly.” 

They stand there for another minute or so-- he loses track of just how long. By the time she pulls away, tugging her fingers out from under his, he thinks it could’ve been hours. Maybe seconds. Who knows? Not him.

“Goodbye, Wilbur,” she says, twirling the stem of the aster in her pretty, fine fingers. “Thanks for the blue.”

Then she’s gone, dipping behind the shelving and he loses her behind the leaves and blooms. He wonders how she knew his name, then smacks himself on the forehead when he realizes that he’s been wearing his ugly apron this entire time, the one with his freaking nametag on it. He’s such an idiot. A smooth idiot, he thinks, but still. 

“Is coffee shop girl still here?” A muffled voice floats out from behind the counter, where Wilbur had impulsively shoved Tommy down and told him to stay quietly under penalty of death when he’d seen her approaching the shop door. “Can I come out now? My legs are all cramped up, I fuckin’ hate this--”

“No,” Wilbur calls out, sighing slightly and brushing the hair out of his face. “You have to stay there forever.”

“What! Unfair!” 


	4. once upon a december

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a small idea i had about reincarnation!

Four boys stand in an abandoned throne room.

“Dancing bears,” one quips, dragging his hand over the ripped and faded fabric of a tapestry, long since forgotten in some quiet corner of the hall. “Entertainment.”

“I bet it wasn’t fun for the bears,” calls another, who’s kneeling on the dirty and stained floor, chips of stone and paint digging into his knees as he peers at the throne, toppled to its side. There’s no stones left in the gilded wood, the hollows where they once had sat empty and looted.

“It’s sort of haunting,” says the youngest of the four. “In a fucked up way. You know people died in here, right?” He turns from where he’s been examining the tiles for blood (his quest fruitless -- all the blood had been mopped up years and years ago) and instead mimes holding a sword, stabbing out and around wildly. 

“Not if the soldiers fought like you,” says the fourth boy, who’s been leaning on the one remaining pillar near the entrance to the huge room. His voice echoes a bit and he winces, lowering it some. “It feels wrong.”

“I don’t know,” says the one by the throne, getting to his feet and turning to stare down at his three companions from the dais. “Maybe the opposite.”

“What, it feels right?” The one by the tapestry picks his way back over to the dais, reaching up behind his head to tug at his hair and tighten his ponytail imperceptibly tighter.

“No, more…” They stare at each other for a moment, then they’re on equal ground and the fourth boy pipes up again, having creeped closer to them in the interim.

“Familiar?” He asks, and the first shrugs.

“Maybe.” 

“You guys are being ridiculous. Look at this place. It’s a shithole.” He’d stopped miming swordsmanship and instead was now watching them, head flickering from person to person as they spoke. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut for long, however.

“Yeah, but it wasn’t always, Toms. See-- that was where the band would sit,” he says, pointing with a finger to the corner of the room.

“How the hell do you figure that?” The youngest’s nose wrinkles, arms folding slightly as he glances over to the other.

“It’s sloped upwards a bit. So they’d be a bit above the crowd. And then the dancers and partiers would swoop through here, ladies with skirts as wide as they were tall and men with big hats. They’d dance.” As he speaks, the fourth boy swoops his arms out wide, feet shifting over the ground as he goes in a clumsy waltz. His feet kick debris and scatter it to the side, ending with an arm behind his back and a hand out in a gesture. “May I have this dance?” He asks, voice faux-polite and teasing.

“Ew, no.” The youngest grimaces, slapping at the hand offered. “You’re fucking weird.”

“I’ll dance, Wil,” says the blond up on the dais, grinning as he comes down and swoops in, taking his hand. They both laugh, feet moving along the ground to a silent tune as the youngest snorts and crosses his arms. None of them think to ask where they learned to waltz-- it’s just something that’s always been known.

“Hey, nerds,” calls a voice a moment later, and three heads turn in unison to their fourth. He’s still on the dais, standing with his back towards them and tipping his head up. “Come look at this,” he says, then he’s moving, feet steady as he clambers across the fallen throne to get height and grasping the thick fabric behind it. He tugs, shifting the weight of it and pulling and then everything goes quite quiet as fabric falls in ripples. It had been tucked into the pole, hidden, waiting for someone to pull it down. Apparently, it had been a while. Dust settles around them from how long it had been folded up, and the creases form cracks and warps down the threads, but it’s intact. Unlike most everything else in the room. Slowly, they all creep up to the dais as the other boy climbs back down letting out a breath once they all see the full scope of the picture. It’s a tapestry, obviously having taken time and skill, and decorating it’s border is elaborate embroidery. The main focus are four figures-- from left to right, four men, each clad in a different outfit. 

The first is tall, lean, and clad in shimmering armor. He’s leaning on a sword with ease, head turned profile and staring at the man next to him. His face is smiling wide, blonde hair poking out just from his helmet. Even with the limited medium of thread, he seems to radiate mischief. The second is lacking armor, a warm brown coat instead covering his shoulders and the strap of a lute slung over him. He’s got a quill in hand, head tilted to the side and eyeing the blond beside him (almost about to speak, words sharp on his tongue). The third is shorter than the rest, but even then, holds dominion. His head is held high, crown laden with jewels and armor shimmering. The sword held in his hands looks like it was meant to be there, eyes staring dead out across the room. The fourth is also in armor, although it’s half hidden by a cloak, hair draping over his shoulder and head tipped up, looking down his nose. His smile is deadly. The axe in his hands is stained red, even though the colors have faded some. 

They’re clearly individuals-- each one infamous in their own right. The only similarity and tie between them are the woven crowns they wear, perched atop royal heads.

“Soldier,” calls the youngest, reaching out to trace the armor the blond figure wears with a pointed finger. 

“Bard,” says the other, humming a ditty under his breath and wiping his hair out of his face to get a better look at the quill and paper created in thread.

“King,” says the third, reaching up to hold the top of his head in an unconscious effort to relieve himself of some sort of weight.

“...god,” says the fourth sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

“No, he just prayed to the god,” says the one standing in front of the bard. He doesn’t move for a moment, staring up instead at the figure looming above him. “He wasn’t a god himself.”

“Probably felt like it, sometimes,” says the youngest, tucking his fingers into his pockets. “Considering how the books tell it. Pompous bitches, look at them. They had everything.”

“They sure did,” says the eldest, and they all fall silent, staring up at the tapestry. For a second, there’s music in the backs of all their minds-- dancing tunes from a party held in a ghost hall, light filtering in from the sunset and food being passed around without question. For a second, they’re thrown back in time, heads heavy with the weight of gold.

“This sucks,” says the one in front of the god, turning on his heel and heading down the dais steps. “I thought there’d be more looting involved.” 

“It’s an abandoned castle, Tech, of course everything’s already gone--” 

And just like that, the slight magic, the slight  _ calling _ dissipates. Bickering fills the stone archways and dances across the broken stained glass, rotten wood humming softly along with them. Four boys make their way across the debris-laden floor and argue about the logistics of robbery and breaking-and-entering, a conversation that has certainly been held many times before based on how the eldest sighs and facepalms. A tapestry flutters, already forgotten behind them as they pick their way out of a castle’s remains. 

They may not remember, but history will never forget. 


	5. soulmate au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> soulmate au! platonic, of course, and set just before/after the festival

“Do you believe in soulmates?” 

Tubbo watches Tommy out of the corner of his eye, fingers carefully clenching onto the branch below him. His feet swing slightly, casting out and coming back in so he sways just slightly. The moon is high above their heads, the walls of L’Manberg glowing faintly in the distance. Tommy doesn’t say anything, so after a minute he tries again.

“Tommy, do you bel-”

“I dunno. The idea seems stupid, honestly. I can like who I like, and it doesn’t matter if they get a mark or not.” Tommy’s words are sharp and maybe a bit hurt, a bit upset. One of his hands fidgets to the sleeve of his jacket, tugging it down over his wrist like something might slip and show. Tubbo’s not stupid- but he’s also not smart enough to push right now, when the barrier’s weak between them.

“Okay,” he says, and leaves it at that.

\----

Soulmates are a fickle thing. Soulmates are a part of the universe, as real as trees and grass and the dirt on their boots. But they’re less solid than that. Tubbo’s had a few soulmates in his life- when his sister was born, a small mark was pressed onto the skin behind his ear. A few of his close friends had come and gone, their marks appearing and disappearing as they went. As of now, Tubbo only has the spot behind his ear. It was kind of surprising, really, since he’d almost assumed he’d found another soulmate with Tommy- they meshed together in a way that was weird but worked. They made each other laugh, spent hours lying in fields and talking, spent days upon days in near constant contact with each other and never grew tired of it. Tubbo had waited for the first few weeks, checking himself over nearly every day for the small splotch of color or symbol that aligned with Tommy, but it never came. He still checked, sometimes, but everywhere he looked was unblemished. It had been almost two full years and still nothing. 

It wasn’t even like Tommy didn’t have soulmates. He did, and Tubbo knew it. He’d seen the marks, the faint brown music note on the back of his neck, the tiny red heart on Tommy’s shoulder blade, the pink crown tucked away on his ankle. And he knew who they correlated to, too. He knew it before he even saw the yellow on Wilbur’s forearm, Phil’s knee, Techno’s palm.

He tried not to let it sting too badly, pushing the angry and hurt thoughts aside to focus on their friendship now. He wasn’t going to let a grudge with the universe dampen the fun they had and the secrets they shared, despite the fact it lingered in the back of his mind, buzzing faintly like a mosquito you can hear but can’t see. 

\----

The next time soulmates come up in conversation, Tommy’s got this look of pinched worry on his face and he can hardly even catch his breath before he’s explaining things. 

“Wilbur’s gone fucking nuts,” he says, falling back onto their bench and staring out across the land before them. Tubbo’s nervous, but he gently moves to sit beside him anyways. “Tubbo, it’s gone. His mark.”

“What?” Tubbo looks over, tipping his head slightly to try and see below the collar of Tommy’s shirt. The last time they’d talked about soulmates had been before Manberg, before the betrayal and fear and horror of the election. They hadn’t had the time for chatting lately, or even hanging out. It’s sort of a shock when Tommy dives right into the deep stuff all at once, and Tubbo’s mind is whirling. 

“It’s gone.” Tommy reaches up and pulls down his shirt a bit, showing Tubbo the spot where he’d once been marked with a soft brown music note, reminiscent of a birthmark. But it’s no longer there. Tommy lets him look for a moment, then lets go of his shirt and looks back out across the wilds and green forests ahead of them. “And Wilbur’s gone insane. He wants to blow up Manberg.” 

That catches his attention more than the soulmate thing, honestly ending the conversation of soulmates and marks and turning it to the TNT that’s apparently being planted under Manberg as they speak. After all, what good are soulmates dead? 

What good are soulmates dead?

\----

Tubbo stares at the sky and wonders when Wilbur will press the button.

Wilbur, who had said Techno wasn’t going to hurt him. Techno, who’d apologized fiercely in the moments both before and after he’d pulled the trigger. That was, until he’d realized the power he held in his hands and turned away. Tubbo wasn’t sure what he was doing now, since he couldn’t really be bothered to try and move his head. Everything hurt, but it hurt in a way that was numb and disconnected. He couldn’t feel his limbs to move them, so he just looked up at the sliver of sky he could see in between yellow concrete and the blackstone of the election podium. There were shouts, and some more flashes of color and bangs of fireworks, but Tubbo doesn’t pay them much mind. He wonders when Wilbur’s going to hit the button and send them all sky-high. At least then it wouldn't hurt anymore.

“TUBBO!” Something registers through the fog in his head and the clouds of smoke and confetti around him. A voice. Distantly, he can register being tugged into someone’s lap and moved around. “Tubbo-” He thinks he should know this voice. He opens his mouth to respond and maybe ask their name, but something’s being forced into his mouth and liquid spills down his throat. He swallows the best he can, and the distant pain in his limbs fade away quietly until all that’s left is a dull throbbing in the places where the pain was the worst. He shuts his eyes, ignoring the voice above him in favor of resting. He can deal with this when he wakes up, he thinks. He wants to sleep now. 

He does.

\----

Tubbo’s very confused when he wakes up.

For one, he’s in Pogtopia. The walls around him are clearly hastily made and cut from the stone around them, and the dim light of lanterns is a clear giveaway. The door isn’t more than a piece of cloth nailed into the stone, pushed aside so he can see outside somewhat. He’s definitely in Pogtopia, which… doesn’t make any sense. 

Secondly, he’s  _ covered _ in bandages. His first reaction upon waking is to sit up a bit, look around, take everything in. But he finds it difficult with the white cloth and sling around his arm, holding it in place. He’s got a loose t-shirt on, but underneath he can see even more bandages wrapped around the majority of his chest. 

Thirdly, Tommy is asleep in a chair next to the bed he wakes up in. He doesn’t notice at first, really- he’s too busy being confused and scared and wondering why the hell his whole body aches. In fact, he nearly jumps when Tommy shifts slightly in the chair, turning to look at him. He sits for a moment, staring, taking it in. Tommy’s face is clearly swollen and bruised, and he’s got remnants of a bloody nose. One black eye, and when Tubbo glances down his knuckles are wrapped in the same clean white wrapping that surrounds his whole chest and arms.

“Tommy?” He asks after a second, watching as Tommy jerks awake in a flash. That’s a downside of war- they both sleep lightly. But it makes waking him from halfway across the room easy. His eyes snap open, clouded by sleep for a second as his brain catches up with the world. Then he stares at Tubbo, face so open with  _ relief _ and  _ worry _ and  _ concern _ -

“Tubbo,” he says, shooting up and out of the chair and over to hug him. Tubbo bites his lip against the pain, sucking it up in favor of clinging to Tommy’s shoulders and holding on tight.

“I thought Wilbur said he wouldn’t hurt me,” he says quietly, memories from the festival coming back to him in fragments as they sit there, bundled together in blankets and a hot potato in Tubbo’s hands. Tommy looks pained, staring down at his own hands and shakes his head lightly. 

“I didn’t know,” he whispers, and Tubbo just leans his head slightly to the left so it rests on Tommy’s shoulder. He spoons another bite of potatoes up and into his mouth.

“It’s okay,” he says, recognizing the apology when he hears it. Visibly, Tommy relaxes, shoulders slumping slightly and frame stooping. It’s the physical sign of something having lifted off his shoulders, a weight being taken from him and pushed out of the equation entirely. They sit for a while in silence, and heal. 

\----

Niki takes his bandages off and it takes him a few minutes to spot it, mixed in with all the bruising and scabs. But it’s a different shade of yellow than the sickly greenish-tinted bruises that wrap around his torso and down his arms. It’s brighter. It’s more like the sun than vomit, pushing through and shining. Tubbo lifts his arm and stares at his wrist, at the tiny little oval of music that rests there. A disc- well, a donut if you didn’t look close enough- sat gently on the delicate skin of his inner wrist. 

When Tubbo spots Tommy’s green bee, flaunted on his shoulder (right where Tubbo’s head fits perfectly) he says nothing. 

Just grips his hand a little tighter and faces the world. 


	6. philza vs. the butcher army of l'manberg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wrote this before the 16th of december, actually. i'm starting to think i'm psychic?

Phil’s got his head half-stuffed in a bag as he packs, shoving his cape further in like it might help. Enchantments were so useful in days like these, where bags seemed to be endless and items all seemed useful in one way or another. He’s sitting on the floor, knees cramping against the still-fresh spruce boards, when someone knocks.

His place in L’Manberg isn’t the best, but it’s also one of the nicest in the whole township. He’d built it himself, sawing through trees and carving through stone with borrowed tools, and eventually, his own. The whole place was still new enough that it smelled like fresh pine and spruce, like faint smoke that clogged up in the unfinished chimney some nights. This house in L’Manberg is not his home-- far from it-- but it’s also not the worst place he’s ever lived. He’s proud of it, if anything else.

It sort of makes him sad to be leaving it so soon.

He stands from where he’s packing, shoving the bag and the cape to the side in favor of standing up, brushing himself off a bit and smoothing down his clothes. He knows he looks rumpled, sleeves pushed up to elbows and pants rumpled from sitting and sorting for so long, but everyone’s looking a bit rumpled these days. Even Mr. President himself, who is currently standing on his doorstep and looking ten years older than his babyface suggests.

“Tubbo,” Phil says, then corrects himself. “Gentlemen.” Behind Tubbo is a practical army, aka, his grandson and the other member of the cabinet. Quackity, maybe? He wasn’t sure. His hand grips the wooden door carefully, caution coming over him as he takes in the fact that the full L’Manberg cabinet is at his door. “What can I do for you?”

“We need to talk,” Quackity says from behind Tubbo, and the look in his eyes is dangerous. 

Phil opens the door a bit wider.

They come inside stiffly, so unused to the new surroundings. Fundy’s the most at ease, since he’s been here a few times before, but Tubbo and Quackity are both wary, especially when all three of them notice the bags and things lying scattered. Phil doesn’t mind that they know he’s packing to go somewhere-- he hasn’t hidden his intentions at any point in time. It’s been up to them to decipher his words. As they settle themselves, he moves to shove a few more things aside and lean against his crafting table, hands splayed over the rough surface. If he was staying, he would bother to fix it. But he’s not.

“So,” Fundy says, the first to break the silence. Phil notes with interest that Tubbo has not spoken yet. “How’re you, gramps?”

“I’m doing well, thanks for asking.” Phil glances between the three of them. “And you?”

It’s only been three days since Tommy’s exile.

“Fine,” Tubbo says, and Quackity just nods. “A bit tired.”

“I bet it comes with the job.” Their conversation is stilted, awkward, and all of them can feel it. The tension in the room is rising like floodwaters, and it’s only a moment’s time ‘til the levees break.

Phil checks his inventory subtly. He’s got everything super important on him, but the door is behind three young men he doesn’t particularly want to make his enemies if he can help it. 

“Yeah,” Tubbo says, tucking his fingers into his pockets. The jacket’s slightly too big on him. “It does.” Phil resists the urge to hug him, to fix the jacket and get him something better to wear and to make sure he’s slept enough. But this isn’t the Tubbo he knew once, so he will not treat him the same, no matter how much it aches.

“Can we cut to the chase?” Quackity asks, voice sharp with… something. Behind him, his shadow flickers on the floor. To anyone else, it would seem a trick of light. Lanterns make the whole room seem flickery at times. Phil is not everyone else. He lets his eyes narrow, staring at the shadow and wondering what’s inhabiting it. “We’ve been told you’ve been letting an enemy of the people onto L’Manberg’s land.”

“You mean my son?” Phil asks, purposefully icing over his voice. He watches Tubbo’s shoulders rise slightly. Behind him, Quackity takes a step forward.

“He’s a fucking menace, and wanted! You can’t just parade him around!” He shouts, waving an arm erratically. “We have wanted posters out for him! Did you not see them?”

Considering he has a photo of Techno standing next to one on his communicator, Phil has to say he has. It was funny at the time. Now it just seems morbid.

“I have,” he says, tipping his head. “But he’s my family.” 

“Right,” Fundy says, glancing over at Quackity. “So, you’re important to him.”

Tubbo’s gaze seems to turn a bit dark. Phil resists the urge to take a step back. He subtly checks his inventory again.

“Not many things are important to Techno,” he says carefully, picking in his brain for the right words to say. “Which makes them all the more precious. Are you really trying to pick a fight with him? He’s not interested in fighting you, anymore.”

“Well--”

“We know.” Quackity cuts off Tubbo, and Phil whips his gaze from Quackity to the tired-looking president instead. He’s expecting the fire that came when he was exiling Tommy, to stand up for himself again, but instead all he gets is a heave of exhausted shoulders. Quackity forges on. “Which is why those important things are crucial to our plan.” When Phil drags his gaze from Tubbo back to Quackity, he’s slightly surprised to see a netherite sword in his hand. Fundy’s got an axe, held by his side.

Phil holds his hands out evenly, raising them into the air slowly. “I don’t want to fight,” he says, and Quackity laughs a little.

“Okay, cool,” he says. “This’ll be way easier, then. You’re coming with us.”

“Is this a kidnapping?” Phil asks, and all three of the boys in front of his exchange glances. They’re all so incredibly young, he thinks.

“It’s an arrest. You brought an outlaw into the city. We’re legally in the right,” Tubbo says slowly, and there’s a lack of conviction in his voice. He doesn’t look Phil in the eyes at any point.

“But Tubbo,” Phil says, “morally?”

Silence settles over them, then Tubbo shrugs his shoulders and turns around. “You can bring him under the white house,” he says, and Quackity grins. Fundy just looks uncomfortable as Tubbo brushes by, their shoulders briefly bumping before he’s out the door that Phil had left slightly ajar. Fundy settles himself into a fighting stance (and it’s one Phil recognizes, echoes of his own teachings in the way his feet sink into the ground) and Quackity just heaves his sword higher. Both of them are obviously thinking he’s not going to fight. Phil is old, after all, and they’re young. Neither of them really know his legacy. 

Neither of them know about one of his old nicknames.

“I’m not coming with you,” he says, glancing toward the door and the ladder. He doesn’t want to take their lives (precious things) and he doesn’t want to lose his own. Escape is his best option here, and his back feels incredibly light. Flying would be so convenient, right now, but he can’t and it almost hurts.

“You really don’t have a choice,” Quackity says.

Hubris will be the downfall of many. Hubris brought down Niobe’s children, a woman who bragged of beautiful children to a woman who bore gods. Her own pride in what she created brought her down to her knees, weeping over the still bodies of her children and regretting her words, once spoken and unable to be taken back. Phil doesn’t abide by the rules of greek mythos, nor any other literary cliches, but he does know when they come in handy. Quackity is too confident in his abilities and too damning of Phil’s to know any better.

Phil’s sword appears in his hand just as Quackity reaches out to take his shoulder, and it does not go unnoticed. Both Fundy’s and Q’s eyes widen in surprise, then narrow, and then Phil’s lifting his sword and slashing. Not to kill-- of course not, never, but he’s not against maiming them to escape. His blade hits true and he can hear Quackity’s yelp of pain, the scent of iron filling the air as something starts to bleed, and he rushes towards the door without hesitation. Feet pound against the wood floor and he flings open the door fully, prepared to jump down into the crater if he has to. Somewhere in the market, he can hear people talking. The night hasn’t fully set in yet, it’s only just past sunset, and there are plenty of people out and about still. Behind him Quackity is cussing loudly, and ahead of him he can hear the voices crawl to a stop.

Footsteps echo on the wood behind him, and then there’s an incredible pain in his shoulder.

The thing about hardcore is, you learn to avoid pain. Avoiding injury and death means avoiding pain entirely, and Phil’s grown used to avoiding major wounds. He knows the twinge in his back when he lifts something too heavy, the soreness that comes with a hard day’s work, the pain of blisters on hands and feet after holding a pickaxe too long. He’s used to small pains. This is big. It’s a burn in his shoulder that hurts like nothing else he’s ever felt, and something is physically wrenched out of him, tugging him back enough to make his head turn. He moves instinctually, his shoulder screaming in pain as he whirls around and thrusts his sword forward and into someone’s soft flesh. 

Fundy stands there, staring at him with a terrified expression. For a moment Phil sees the echoes of someone else, then he wrenches his sword backwards and stumbles away. He’s reminded of a night that wasn’t too long ago, stumbling away from another young man who he’d spent familial time with.

Phil’s shoulder bleeds, and bleeds, and bleeds.

He leaves Fundy and his bloody axe behind, sword dripping with blood from his retaliatory strike. He’ll be fine, he rationalizes-- Quackity’s right there, they’re in the middle of L’Manberg, the stab through his gut certainly wouldn’t kill him, especially with the healing pots he knows Tubbo keeps on him constantly (paranoia makes one cautious). Phil can’t make himself be worried for Fundy, in these few crucial minutes. He has to think of himself. He’s got one healing pot in his inventory that he forces himself to down before he even gets beyond L’Manberg’s borders, stumbling through the dark and ignoring the blood streaming down his side and the tears borne of pain staining his face. The pot knits muscles and arteries back together in his shoulder but the wound is still deep, deep enough to be of worry.

Phil pulls a compass out and slings it around his neck, keeping the needle constantly in sight as he pushes a boat off the shores near the docks. The journey is long, he knows, and it will be cold, so he drags his jacket around him and works to tie up his wound as best he can. It’s tight and it hurts so much he almost passes out right there in the boat, but he forces himself onwards. He’s gotten through worse before, he tells himself, coaxing a dolphin below him to nudge the boat forwards so he doesn’t have to work the oars. He’s gotten through worse and he’ll get through more even if it almost kills him.

By the time the boat brushes against land again, ice and snow settling in his vision, Phil is feeling very weak and there is an unsettling amount of red water sloshing around in the bottom of his boat.

_ Sorry Tubbo _ , he thinks, since he thinks the docks and boats were built by Tubbo in a time before he was president. _ I’ll wash it out later _ , he promises silently, shifting his feet and stumbling into a snowdrift. It takes him a minute to get himself out, but he manages. He pushes forward, glancing down to the compass and following the needle point with intense focus. Sometimes, the world blacks out until it’s only the needle and him and the five feet ahead of him, the snow going sideways in his vision and wind whipping his cheeks into bright red spots below his eyes. He chuckles to himself, a faint memory of a doll with bright red cheeks, and he presses one bloody hand to his face, one cheek, then the other. Now he’s really a doll, he thinks, glancing down at the compass and turning slightly to follow as it shifts.

Eventually, he bumps into a stone wall. Lights, and warmth, and a horse.

“Hi, Carl,” he mutters slightly, staring at the horse in front of him. He smiles, reaching out with a hand and watching as Carl sniffs it before turning away. From there he finds the stairs, pushing himself up slowly and with care. His hand shakes against the stone wall, fingers curled up and cold.

He knocks.

Techno answers.

“Hi,” Phil says, and lets himself collapse forward. Techno catches him-- of course he does. Phil lets himself sink.

\----

Techno sits across from the bed he’d dragged downstairs, dragged in front of the fire. The gangly arm of his father drapes off of it, and Phil looks serene, eyes shut, chest heaving up and down. His shoulder’s bandaged properly, healing pots working their magic as Phil rests from the walk over to Techno’s cottage. He wrings his hands over and over, staring at the flames just beyond Phil’s prone body and mind whirling.

Retirement was a nice idea, he muses, thoughts spilling over to Tommy, to Wilbur, to Phil.

To L’Manberg.

Retirement was never really possible, was it?


	7. what the fuck is a "meditation"?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> phil is imprisoned. he reminisces and thinks.

Phil sits on the obsidian floor, legs crossed.

_ Criss cross applesauce, _ he’d once sung to impatient children, watching as their eyes gleamed and they sat.

Now it’s just kind of a mockery whenever he thinks of the phrase. 

His back is as straight as a steel rod, years of self-control settling into his bones as he feels his core and abs work gently for the posture. It’s not something that comes easily, these days, good posture. He supposes it’s a side effect of getting old.

Not that he’s old. He’s just… more senior than anyone else he can think of on this damn server. For a brief moment he wishes he’d never joined this mess, but then he thinks of Tommy’s face-- _ dark shadows under his eyes, the creases on his forehead, the tears constantly running _ \-- and reminds himself that he’s supposed to be clearing his mind. Not reminiscing on failures.

Or maybe he should be reminiscing. He’s never been good at this sort of thing. He’d known enough about it to teach the boys, sitting in a field of grass one summer morning and telling them to cross their legs, sit up straight. They’d watched him with bright eyes until he’d instructed them to close them, and from there it had been a relative mess. Techno had been the only one to truly pick up the habit. Tommy and Wilbur had just nudged and laughed and breathed in and out in such a silly pattern that Phil had to dismiss them before hiding his own laughter behind a palm. Those days had been so simple, with the sun dancing through golden locks of a little boy’s hair and glinting the brown eyes of another, filled with mischief. 

He thinks back to the last time he’d seen Tommy and Wilbur. Tommy, with his eyes greyed out and tears streaming down his face as Techno dragged him away. Wilbur, dead.

Phil inhales sharply and opens his eyes.

He doesn’t need to remember how Wilbur had died, so he simply doesn’t. He sits there, staring at a point on the wall opposite him, and breathes.

Breathing is the first step to meditation. In and out, slowly. In through the nose, out through the mouth. You match your breathing to your heart rate, so Phil begins to do that.

There’s a sharp rap against the wall, and he flinches, thrown off his rhythm.

“Busy?” Someone asks, and it’s the cat one. The one who’s quiet, but nice. Phil shakes his head, and the door slides open. He doesn’t make a break for it-- it would make no sense. He only has one life, so death would be permanent, and he’d heard about the prison before it had been completed. It was inescapable. All of his guards know this, and so does Phil. Inescapable.

Supposedly. 

A platter of potatoes and beef sits in front of him. He’s nothing if not well-fed. Phil sort of feels like a pet, caged up in here, exotic and delicate and in need of protection. Which is ridiculous and fills him with rage, because Phil is more than capable and that is precisely why he is here.

“How are things outside?” He asks, and the cat-- was his name Andy? Ant?-- shrugs.

“It’s a sunny day out,” he offers. Phil appreciates the knowledge. Obsidian is not easy to gauge the weather through. He shuts his eyes, imagines the sun. 

“It would be nice to go out,” he says. His guard shuffles, then nods slightly. 

“I’ll ask about it,” he says, and then the door is shutting with the sound of pistons and stones and clicking. The worst part about all this is how terribly nice everyone is to him here. He’s fed. He’s given things, granted they’re not weapons. Books, clothing, small activities. The guards talk to him, and gave him information freely. He was a prisoner simply by virtue of his location and status.

Phil feels like he’s being suffocated slowly, and it’s not the most pleasant thing. 

The smell of potatoes and beef has thrown him off, so he gives up on trying to meditate and instead pulls the plate toward him, happy to at least finish this simple task of feeding himself. He thinks if Techno were in here, he might start on a hunger strike. Wilbur would too, if he was alive. Tommy wouldn’t. He’s always been stubborn, but oh-so-quick to give in when there’s food involved. Phil can’t recall how many times he’d bribed Tommy away from arguments with just the promise of a sweet, chocolate staining sticky fingers as jealous brothers looked on. He smiles as he recalls it, leaning against the obsidian and pressing his fingers into his lips, tasting imaginary sweet things.

He wonders if they’d give him chocolate, if he asked.

He’s so tired.

Once the food is gone, he pushes the plate to the door and goes to sit again, legs crossed over one another. The bones in his ankles press traitorously onto one another, uncomfortable, but he ignores it in favor of settling back into the pose from before.

He tries to clear his thoughts. It’s more difficult than he thought it would be. 

Tommy’s face flashes before his eyes. Exhausted, teary, lanky fingers clutching a green emerald to his chest. Wilbur’s next, the one he wore when he was alive. Mischievous, clever brown eyes, and a mouth that quipped lyrics and magic like it was nothing. Techno invades his mind as well, crowding the other two and bickering softly. Critical red eyes, pointy teeth and a grin like box knives, twice as dangerous.

Phil wonders where his children have gone. 

“We never left,” Wilbur says quietly, the ghostly form of him leaning against his crumpled bed, sheets wrinkled at the bottom. Phil’s sleep comes in fits, never restful. “You were the one that pulled away.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, squeezing his eyes tighter against the sudden intrusion. “I just didn’t want to stifle you.”

“You let us run too rampant,” Wilbur says, and it’s accusing. “Look at what we did. Look at what I did.”

“You were misguided,” Phil says, and thinks of the ruins of L’Manberg. The crater that has slowly been filling up with rain, and a teenage president with enough paranoia to kill him.

“I was alone.” Wilbur’s voice is like ice.

“You had Tommy--” Phil starts, but Wilbur cuts him off easily, raising his voice.

“Tommy had  _ me _ , and even at the end he was gone! I was alone, because you made me that way!” Phil grimaces, lifting a hand to press at his forehead, then explodes. 

“I never meant for any of this to happen!” He shouts, and the silence after it is deafening. He’s panting, chest rising and falling messily as he runs his fingers through his hair and knocks his hat to the floor. “I never meant for any of this to be my fault,” he insists. “I just wanted you to be safe and happy and yourselves. I never thought-- I never intended for this to be the outcome.”

“Well, here we are,” Wilbur says. “When we come to get you out, you should apologize.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Phil spits, and he can hear Wilbur snort a laugh. In his mind’s eye, he can see Wilbur’s shoulders shrugging with the action, sweater slipping down a bit over his collar. 

“You should’ve apologized a long time ago,” he says, and Phil deflates even further. Guilt asphyxiates. 

“I know.”

“Maybe when you killed me.”

“I know, Wilbur, I know!” Phil explodes again, but this time he swings around and stares at where he’d heard Wilbur rustling just a moment before. He blinks. 

The room is empty. He’s the only one here, of course. It’s a maximum security cell, designed even to keep ghosts away. Ghosts, who wouldn’t come to see him anyways, because he reminds them of terrible times. Ghosts of children who he ignored one too many times, who he forgot to tell how much he loved and adored them.

Phil presses his fist to his forehead and tries to breathe. In through the nose, and out through the mouth.

He thinks of rippling grass, sunny days, and bright smiles.

He waits. 


	8. heart been broke so many times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fundy and dream are in love. right? right??

Fundy stares down at the bouquets surrounding them, the sickly sweet scent of flowers hanging in the air, and tries to remember how to breathe.

“What?” He asks, turning his head slightly and catching sight of his fiance, staring. Maybe he misheard, that’s what he’s hoping. Fundy’s name sure doesn’t start with a G, after all!

“I said Fundy would love these,” Dream says, but his smile seems sort of tight. Fundy stands there, staring, and for a moment the heavy feeling of admin powers at work washes over him. Dream is locked in the moment, staring even if Fundy can’t see his eyes.

“For you,” Dream says, and hands over the bouquet he’s holding. It’s filled with poppies, oxford daisies, lilies. Fundy stares down at them, then back up, then towards the stand.

He’d sworn he’d heard Dream say  _ George _ , though.

A hand on his cheek distracts him, pulls him away from the thought and drags him back to reality. There’s soft lips on his and then Dream’s pulled back, mask tugged slightly to the side and a small smile on his face. Fundy feels his heart sink, just the slightest, but he doesn’t pull away and lets the moment linger, the slight pressure of Dream’s fingers on his cheek and the warmth of him beside. Dream loves him. They’re getting married. You have to love someone to marry them, after all. It’s going to be lovely, even if Dream’s an admin and sort of freaks people out and may have been an enemy at one point and perhaps even the man who manipulated the death of his father. Fundy  _ loves _ him.

But Dream’s hand is gone and so is the weight beside him as he meanders off, onto the path to find something else to do.

“Fundy?” Ranboo’s voice cuts in, dragging him out of his funk, and Fundy glances over. He’s still holding the bouquet, fingers clasped tightly around the stems of the flowers.

“Alright, we’re fine!” He says, cutting in before anything else can be said. “We’re fine, we’re good, we’re fine.” He smiles, forcing his lips upwards and watches as Ranboo eyes him with a mixture of worry and confusion. Fundy lifts a hand, gesturing aimlessly and glancing down at the flowers. His eyes catch on the red and he thinks about mushrooms. “We’re fine,” he repeats slowly, going to set the bouquet down. “We’re all good.” Ranboo nods along, repeating the words, and then he’s back off on the tangent they’d been going off of before Dream’s slipup. Fundy doesn’t give the flowers another glance for the rest of the night.


	9. that one scene from 12.8.20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the day tommy hallucinated tubbo. also, chat is fireflies!

Tommy’s got his hands out, waving through the chat like he could touch them if he tried hard enough. He’s tuned in-- tuned in enough so that he can hear flashes of conversations and voices, something to drown out the quiet of the night. 

Wilbur’s somewhere, Dream’s gone off, and he’s alone again. It was terribly reminiscent of his first night out here alone, so he’d turned on his chat and invited them in. Axe swung over his shoulder, picking his way through the tall grass and absently taking down a skeleton as he jams torches into the dirt. 

“As I was saying, it’s quite dark out here,” he says to nobody in particular, and the little pixels around him squirm and jump at his voice. He catches wind of comments from a few pixels:  _ it’s dark out!–tommy, look over–mobs! mobs! turn around!–awww–watch your armor, dream might–hello! hello! _

“I agree,” he mutters, plunking another torch down and lighting it up so the area around is spawn proofed. “It is dark out.” Another skeleton clunks by, but he ignores it in favor of going up to one of the oak trees. Ambient light from the portal nearby and torches make him alright with taking a break, and he slumps against the wood after a second and checks over his axe. The chatters flit and flicker around him, the fog dense enough that he can hardly see over them. Usually he’d tune them out, but lately, it’s been nice knowing that he’s got people with him in spirit. “You guys are the worst,” he scoffs, tuning in once more to listen to the soft replies. “Pogchamp, pogchamp, don’t do any of that ‘aww’-ing shit.” 

The pixels chatter excitedly amongst themselves for a moment and he grins, hefting the axe up and switching off their view so he can focus on chopping down the tree. He’s hearing plenty of pogchamps, which is nice, and the waterfall of voices makes him feel a little less alone. It does make it a little harder to hear mobs behind him, but he’s lighted up a fair bit of the area around. Plus, who cares?

Something shifts in the corner of his vision and the chat goes  _ insane _ .

_ LOOK LOOK–HE’S HERE–tommy, turn around–POG–awwwwww–omg no this is so–where’s your compass, find your– _

He catches all of that before it becomes practically unlistenable, and eventually, he has to just tune it out entirely as he turns to look.

Tubbo’s  _ here _ .

Tubbo’s standing in the frame of the portal, one hand braced on the obsidian and knuckles white. His face is both uncertain and unreadable, and Tommy catches the glimpse of something shiny hanging around his neck. He struggles to breath for a moment, and around him he can tell the chat is going wild. He fights the urge to shove them away, turn them off, for this moment to be private. His axe hangs empty and heavy in his hand, and his eyes prick and burn.

Tommy knows he should move, he should maybe crack a joke and smile, or maybe he should be angry and furious and start shouting, but he can’t force himself to move. There’s concrete hanging around his neck, in between his fingers and his feet and the ground, dragging him down into the earth and keeping him there. Tubbo looks startled, staring back at him for a second. 

They’re at an impasse. 

Tubbo breaks it first, shifting backwards and back into the portal, and then with a rush of particles he’s gone again.

“Right,” Tommy says after a long pause. “Right.” Around him, the chat stutters back into view in the form of pixels and light. It’s almost comforting, how they crowd around him and cuddle into his arms when he holds them out. There’s no physical weight to them and they’re annoying, shouts of anger and sadness leaking into his ears, but it’s better than nothing. If he shuts his eyes, he can almost pretend the faux weight is Tubbo, and they’re all whispering apologies.

With a wave of his arms, the chatters dissipate and reappear, floating around him with concerned buzz. He waves them off bit by bit, picking up his axe where it had somehow ended up on the ground. Back to chopping wood, he thinks.

“I’m seeing shit,” he decides, declaring it to the mass of pixels around him. “I guess that’s it. I’ve gone insane.” 

Behind him, armored feet hit dirt, and a familiar voice calls out his name. The chatters around him shudder, a mix of excitement and anger.

“Hey, Tommy,” Dream calls. Tommy grits his teeth and grips his axe, and turns to face him.


	10. dancing with nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> niki has a dream

His hands are somehow on her waist.

It’s the first thing she really notices. Around them, colors spiral, twisting and shifting and making her violently nauseous if she glances to the side for too long. His hands are on her waist and her arm is over his shoulder, and he’s warm, and alive.

“Wilbur?” She asks, just to make sure. He smiles at her, the smile that could exhale words made of honey and sugar and promise. His fingers grip her a little tighter, and when she looks down she realizes she’s in a dress. Blue, like a cloud. Blue, like the skies above L’Manberg. Cool marble chills her toes. She’s not wearing shoes.

“What are we doing?” She asks, lifting her gaze to his face. He just smiles at her, releasing her waist to extend his arms and twirl her. Niki’s hair floats around her face, delicate strands tickling her cheeks and settling on his shoulders. They’re impossibly light, and the cool marble beneath her toes is gone and instead it’s dirt. They’re outside, trees shadowing their dance as she follows his lead, and they waltz into the entrance of Pogtopia. 

_ None of this is real _ , she thinks to herself, watching the walls contort and shift around them as they dance. His hand grips her a little tighter.

“Why did you do it?” She asks, snapping her gaze to his face again. It’s warm and alive, nothing at all like the cold dead figure she’d only had a moment’s glimpse of in the past few weeks. Around them, walls melt into the sky and podiums and festivals. He smells like nitroglycerin and dynamite, the sensation burning into her nostrils and rotting away in her sinuses. He smells like the last time he’d hugged her, hair matted and greasy and eyes frantic.

Now, they just look at her with an odd serenity. 

“Enrev usttr a aksen,” he says. The words tumble from his lips and twist in front of her, letters dancing around them. She feels like she’s in an enchanting room.

“What?” She asks, craning her neck to follow them as they escape behind his head, away from her view.

“Never trust a snake,” Wilbur repeats, and this time the words shape themselves better. He’s learning. “Never trust a snake, the colorful ones are the most dangerous-- never trust a snake, Niki. Or pigs.”

“I haven’t seen any snakes,” she tells him. She’s confused. This server doesn’t have snakes. Under her feet, potatoes sing, and above them are piles of soil. She can smell the scent of it on his breath. 

“People are there and then they’re not,” Wilbur continues, fingers gripping into her waist more. “They disappear. They rot away. They turn their eyes to others.”

“You turned away from me.” Her words come out with more vitriol than she had hoped, but she doesn’t regret it. “I was there for you.” 

“No one was,” Wilbur insists, his grip on her hand so tight in his own. It burns like fire, and her dress is aflame. Tendrils of smoke soar towards the sky, fire flickering in her vision as it consumes the bottom of her dress. Niki feels like she should probably put it out, but they’re splashing through a waterfall and coming out the other side soaked before she can even panic. Despite the water, she still can smell smoke and sulphur. “No one was there,” Wilbur says, and his eyes are trained on a spot far away from them, over her head. No matter how much she turns and tries to look, the world spins out of view and Wilbur guides them away. 

“I was,” she tells him, pulling her hand out of his own and cupping his cheek. “I was.”

“You weren’t,” Wilbur says, looking down at her, and his eyes are as red as blood. “I died alone.”

“That was your choice,” Niki tells herself, looking down between them. Wilbur might be warm as if he were alive, but the red seeping out of his shirt is very telling. It spills over onto her, staining her belly and the sky-blue dress with deep maroon. “Your choice,” she repeats, like a prayer. She’s scared. “Oh, prime.”

“Death isn’t scary, Niki,” Wilbur says, spinning them around and around and around. They’re flying. High over the lands of the SMP, Niki can look down and see the familiar builds and structures. No clouds obscure her view. She is flying and she is free. She wonders if this is what dying feels like. If it is as magnificent as this view, right now. If it is as warm as his hands on her cheeks, guiding her and dancing with her. 

“Death is inevitable,” Wilbur continues. “Death surrounds us. It’s going to that place you go when you respawn and never coming back. There’s no god. There’s nothing at all. There’s just you, and the universe, and the universe is a cruel and uncaring mistress. That’s all death is. No heaven or hell. Just you.”

“I don’t want to die,” Niki says, and she feels very small and very scared again. Around them, the wind whistles, and her feet dance on air as they lower from the sky and into the earth once more. L’Manberg swirls in her peripheral vision, a haunting dream memory of the real wooden structures. She can see blurry people watching them dance through the market, people without faces. 

“Then don’t turn on people,” Wilbur whispers, tugging her close and grinning. Maniacal. “Don’t turn on those who love you and don’t make mistakes. Dying is the easy way out of life. Don’t take it. You’re turning traitor to everyone who ever cared if you die. I know. Betrayal and death and life and love. It’s all turned upside-down here, like the rabbit and the tortoise. Have you ever heard that story, Niki?” He says her name like it’s a prayer. “It’s a story about things being upside-down. Death is upside-down and inside-out, when your wrongs seem right and rights seem wrong.”

He’s rambling. She stares at him, watches the blood drip from his lips, and then reaches up to wipe it away with her thump. Her sky-blue dress is spotless, despite the oceans of blood spilling out and over her feet. She’s coated in invisible layers of red. 

Around them, the world swims blue and pink and purple as the sun sets on L’Manberg. They’re in the sky again, dancing through clouds. His hand is on her waist. He’s holding her, warm and real and alive. Something she’d never have again, no matter what she hoped. 

His hand is on her waist. 

She wakes up.


	11. boo!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> my headcanon on how ranboo joined the smp :)

Niki brushes the hair out of her face, and after a moment, reaches back entirely to loop a ribbon around the whole lot of it. It’s getting so long-- she needs a trim, if she’s being honest. Especially with all the tension lately. Going into war with long hair is never good, but she doesn’t want to admit they’re going anywhere, much less  _ prepare _ for it.

However, she is here. The circle in front of her stares back accusingly, like an eye written onto the floor. She’d stolen the design out of one of Tubbo’s books, the dreamon ones he hid under the floorboards where he thinks no one can reach. Fundy’s a snitch, however, and had easily spilled the beans one night in the bakery.

Niki stares down at the lit candles, the chalk, the written enchanted language and exhales. She’s got this.

The book ruffles slightly under her fingers as she checks the pronunciation one last time, mumbling under her breath. She’s rocky in the language, but fluent enough that translating is not as hard as it could be. She checks it over one last time, then carefully pulls the gemstone out of her pocket and places it into the center of the circle. It’s the last thing he’d given to her before she’d been hurried off and joined the SMP. She’s kept it safe so far, the item practically never leaving her ender chest. She takes a breath, leaning over to sprinkle a bit of glowstone over the gem.

“ᒲᒷリ 𝙹⎓ ℸ ̣ ∴𝙹, ʖ𝙹||ᓭ 𝙹⎓ 𝙹リᒷ ; ᓭᒷᓵ∷ᒷℸ ̣ ᔑ⊣ᒷリℸ ̣ ᓭ 𝙹⎓ ᓭᒷリᓭᒷ ; ʖ∷╎リ⊣ ⍑╎ᒲ” The words stutter off her tongue, not coming easily as they do for admins or even for Fundy, who’d taken the time to learn it and pronounce it right. She makes sure she pronounces this right-- not doing so could be disastrous. 

For the first second, nothing happens.

Then a slight wind picks up, which is odd, because Niki is definitely inside of her house, in an attic no less. The wind gets stronger, and stronger, and her hair is falling loose from the ribbon to dance around her shoulders and blind her for a moment before she pushes it away. Below her hands the chalk lines are glowing, the candles not even flickering despite the wind. There’s a noise, the sound of the enchantment language flowing around her as the words peel off the page and dance, like they do around enchantment tables. She grins, pushing her hair away from her eyes again as the gemstone in the center of the chalk circle lifts. 

Then everything stops. The stone drops with a clatter, the wind gone, her hair ruffling one last time before settling down to her shoulders again. It’s definitely a rat’s nest. The letters disappear, fading into non-existence. The circle is empty.

“Wait--” Niki says to herself, glancing down at the book. The gem rolls slightly from the force of being dropped. She rifles through the pages, dragging her fingers down the instructions and checking her notes. No, no, no, she’d done this right! She had to have! She’d done everything right. Maybe the gemstone wasn’t a strong enough connection? Maybe she’d--

“Niki?” The voice is familiar and rough around the edges, and she snaps her head up. In front of her, a boy with split-tone skin, a confused look, and a crown missing a singular green stone sits in the center of the circle. Niki’s heart lifts and she laughs, stumbling forward on her knees and surely smudging the chalk, getting it all over her pants, but she doesn’t care. She opens her arms wide and he falls in, warm and comforting and just like the last time she’d seen him.

“Boo!” She cries, and he’s laughing a little despite the suddenness of it all. Niki clings harder, grinning widely. She’s missed her little brother.


	12. The Snog of '99

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry potter AU! took a break from writing main projects bc i was feeling burnout, and ended up really liking this piece.

Phil’s sitting in the Slytherin common room, studying his arse off for an Advanced Arithmancy pop quiz that he knows is coming. It’s not the most important class he’s ever taken-- in fact, he’d be better off studying for any other kind of test. But things have been terribly stressful the past few weeks, and Phil finds Arithmancy calming. So he’s bent over a textbook, ink smudged on his cheek, fingers cramping from the amount of notes he’s taken when the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs echoes down into the dungeons. It sounds like a whole stampede of people-- but in reality, it turns out to be three.

Dream, his tie crooked and jacket missing, fighting his way down the steps with one of his friends. Sapnap’s hair is wild, tie around his forehead and jacket flowing behind him as Dream tugs on the sleeve of his shirt, desperately trying to race down the stairs. Just behind them, Phil can see the other one-- George, at least with all the parts of his uniform in their proper places, Ravenclaw blue. He looks the least amused.

“You know they’re not supposed to be in here--” Phil starts to say, because he’s Head Boy and following the rules is supposed to be his thing. He doesn’t really care, though, which works out for the better because Sapnap’s shouting over him in a flash.

“Ant and Red got caught snogging!” He shouts gleefully, and then is promptly shut up by a hand in his mouth from Dream. Dream’s the next one to call out. 

“In  _ Filch’s _ supply closet,” he says, batting his eyelashes. Phil winces in sympathy. “By  _ Filch _ .” 

“You bastard!” Sapnap shouts a second later, having escaped the hand by means of biting, Phil thinks. He opens his mouth to scold them again-- and his concentration’s been ruined-- but by the time he starts to speak, they’re already up the stairs again and out of sight. Not out of hearing, though, and Phil listens to their bickering echo.

“Gossips,” he mutters, fighting back a smile.

\----

Techno gently nudges Ludwig’s foot with his own, correcting his stance easily. It’s something he’s been developing on his own-- practice from both dueling and fencing is coming in handy in order to be able to fight as well as he does. 

“It’s all about posture,” he explains, showing Ludwig how to straighten his shoulders. Ludwig is… nice. He’s more tolerable than most people, and pays attention when Techno talks. It’s all he could really ask for in a student, even if Ludwig’s a year ahead of him. Techno backs up, and holds his wand out. “And in the wrist. Remember, your body is a line--”

Someone bursts into the room, startling both of them so badly they flinch. It’s Dream, eyes wide and jacket missing and Sapnap at his side, both of them laughing hysterically.

“Ant and Red got caught snogging in Filch’s closet,” Dream calls, then shouts in breathless laughter as Sapnap shoves him to the side. Techno sighs, relaxing out of his own dueling stance and presses a hand to his head.

“And you think I care why?” He asks. Ludwig, thoroughly distracted, shifts and moves to sit on the side of the dueling platform to chat briefly with George.

“It’s funny!” Sapnap calls, shoving Dream back. “We’re telling everyone.”

“Bet I can tell more people than you,” Dream says, head turned to Sapnap and cheeks red from how much they’ve been bolting around the castle.

“Bet you can’t.”

“Bet I can.”

“You’re on.”

Techno watches them bolt out of the room, then turns to Ludwig, who looks thoroughly amused.

“Class dismissed,” he says, shoving his wand away and rolling up his sleeves. Ludwig raises a brow, but says nothing and nods instead.

“Good luck!” He calls as Techno leaves the room. 

\----

“You will not believe what happened this afternoon,” Sapnap says, draping his arms over Bad and Skeppy’s shoulders. The two exchange glances, then Bad cranes his neck to give Sapnap a look.

“Red and Ant got caught snogging,” he says, and Sapnap’s face immediately falls. He pulls back smacking a fist into his free hand and swears.

“Who told you?” He demands, swirling around and scouring the Great Hall. It’s empty for the most part. “Who???”

“Dream,” Skeppy says, watching how Sapnap’s face goes red. “Who did you think?”

“Dammit!” He calls, and then he’s running off again, wand already out and dancing in his fingertips as he goes. Bad and Skeppy exchange a glance-- this isn’t the weirdest thing they’ve ever heard from Sapnap. In fact, it’s sort of expected.

“They really thought Filch’s closet would be the best spot, didn’t they?” Bad asks, sounding amused. Skeppy huffs out a laugh.

“They should at least learn his schedule,” he teases, bumping shoulders.

Bad’s flush is fun to watch.

\----

George is sick and tired of this, but Dream’s at least funny to watch, racing across the green and shouting the news like he thinks people care. Ant and Red had been flirting for ages now, it’s no surprise they’re finally a thing. But the enthusiasm is funny. So is the way Dream has to dodge a stone from Tommy’s hand, who’d been lounging in the grass with Tubbo, Purpled, Jack, and Ranboo. 

“Shut up!” He shouts, ignoring how Dream rears back to dodge another stone. They’re pebbles, really. George shoves a hand over his mouth to stifle laughter.

“Ant and Red got caught,” Dream repeats gleefully, snagging George’s arm when he gets close enough. And then George is being dipped, because of course he is. He gives Dream his best death stare, ignoring the whoops and cheers from Purpled. “Snogging,” Dream finishes. 

“Why do you think we care!?! That’s gross!!!” Tommy shouts, and George has a good view of his upside-down red face before he’s being spun up again, and Dream’s tugging him off in another direction.

“Gotta beat Sapnap!” Dream shouts in explanation, and they’re too far away by the time Tommy shouts something back, laughter abound. George thinks he’s going to go take a nap.

\----

Sam is halfway through the charm when someone bursts into the classroom, faces red and clearly out of breath.

“Ant and Red--”

“Got caught snogging,” Sam finishes for them, leaning back and letting his wand clatter to the floor. So much for this project.

“We heard,” Wilbur says lazily, watching Sapnap’s face go red.

“What??” Dream sounds astounded, and Sapnap’s hand goes lack where it’s trying to smush his mouth shut. “From who?? We’re both--” 

By Wilbur’s side, Niki pipes up. “Techno,” she says, her voice lovely and clean. Her smile is less so, mischievous. “He’s annoyed you interrupted his practice.”

The two exchange looks. Behind them, George looks tired and wind-swept.

“Truce?” Sapnap asks. Dream slaps his hand into his, shaking on it easily.

“Truce,” he agrees. Then narrows his eyes, grin evil. “This is  _ war _ ,” Dream hisses, and Sapnap’s grin is wide as they disappear out the door again.

“Sorry,” George calls. Sam waves his hand. 

As long as they’re having fun.

\----

Dream and Sapnap catch Schlatt and Minx in the hallway, and dodge fists to the nose.

Techno corners Alyssa and Callahan in the greenhouse, and leaves with a grin.

Karl and Quackity are halfway through their Charms homework (it’s taken them about three hours so far) when Dream pops up from behind a bookshelf, eyes shining and out of breath. Sapnap’s right behind him. George is nowhere to be seen.

“Ant and Red got caught,” he wheezes, breathless. Then, from behind them comes another monotone voice.

“Snogging in Filch’s closet,” Techno says, studying his nails carefully. It’ll be fine. He’s not competitive. 

“You dolt,” Dream hisses. Techno grins.

“Nerd,” he calls back. Then they’re both gone, darting toward the library doors to find their next victims.

Karl and Quackity exchange a look. Charms is forgotten, or at least, concentration has been broken. 

“What the fuck.” Quackity says. 

\----

Later that night, Ant and Red enter the Great Hall to grab dinner, hands clasped. They both agree the detentions were probably worth it. The public humiliation? Maybe not. 

They enter, and the whole hall breaks into applause.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Ant mutters, slamming his free hand over his face and trying to ignore the applause and laughter. Red’s laughing, harder than he has all day.

“Even  _ Techno’s _ giving us a thumbs up,” he wheezes, bending over at the waist he’s laughing so hard. Once he’s recovered, it’s easy to tug Ant’s knuckles to his lips, grinning at the way he blushes. The cheers have settled down, and now all that’s left is their table of friends, gathered and slapping their backs and congratulating. 

Yeah. It’s worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for some context:  
> phil, bad, dream, schlatt, and minx are slytherin. phil is head boy!  
> tommy, tubbo, red, sapnap, sam, and ludwig are gryffindor!  
> techno, karl, quackity, and skeppy are hufflepuff!  
> ant, niki and wilbur are ravenclaw!


	13. "...and told me to go for a walk in the snow."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wilbur finds a picture. dream is more than he seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this drabble is based on a comic drawn by the lovely @_cvpher on twitter!!!! 
> 
> you can find the comic [here!](https://twitter.com/_cvpher/status/1345879749097181184)

Wilbur thinks that if he were alive, the snow would crunch under his feet.

However, he is very much not alive. He is in fact, dead, and so leaves no footprints. Behind him, the snow is undisturbed. Behind him, there is no trace that anyone had ever even come this way. Wilbur is alone in the middle of a snowy dark forest, and he finds he’s quite fine with that.

Dream had told him to go for a walk in the snow, and so here he was. He’d gone for a walk in the snow, and gotten lost. And then hidden under a tree for-- a day? Two? Maybe three. He isn’t quite sure, but he’d seen the moon a fair amount of times before he’d been able to travel again without melting. The trees helped, giving him places of respite, but even then some snow leaked through the leaves of spruce and pine and settled on his shoulders, sizzling at the touch. It didn’t hurt. It just sort of tingled. Wilbur found the feeling quite delightful, until it got to be too much and he had to retreat.

Tonight, however, he does not have to worry about that, because the sky is clear and the stars are numerous. He whispers the constellation’s names to himself, not remembering quite where he learned them but knowing it was probably Techno or Phil. Wilbur remembers a lot of things that he says he doesn’t. No one has caught on yet. 

Something catches his eye, and ever the curious, he turns.

It’s a house, he realizes. Or at least, the foundations of one. Crumbling stone outlines what was once a little shack, hardly big enough to be called a house, really. He floats towards it, intrigued. Dream’s lands were pretty widespread, and Wilbur had traversed most of them, but this is something new. As he floats towards it, another pile of crumbling stone catches his eye, and then another, and another. It’s the remains of a village, he realizes, turning in a circle and spotting more than a few decayed structures. Some are more destroyed than others-- but at the end of the half-circle is one that is actually still standing. The roof has some holes, but the walls are still up, he realizes.

So off he goes, to explore. He trails a ghostly hand along the wall, wide eyes taking it all in. The door is off its hinges, hanging and rotted, termite tracks through the wood. The walls are tilted, but standing. Wilbur makes his way to the center of the room and spins, letting his feet float up a bit and resting on cushions of air. Floating is comfortable, and makes for a good party trick, he knows. 

There’s a sharp corner of something, just across from the doorway, that his gaze lingers on. It takes a moment for him to recognize it for what it is.

A picture frame. A faded, yellowed photo still hung neatly in the center. Despite all the destruction around him, this wall has stayed standing, and this picture in place. Wilbur’s gaze dances over the figures in it-- a grizzled older man, a smiling woman, a young ginger boy-- and lands on a face he knows.

“What the--” he cuts himself off, drifting closer. There, in the corner, sits a young man with vibrant green eyes and a blond flop of hair. He’s dressed in different clothing, there are less scars, but he’s got freckles and a strong jaw. “Dream?” Wilbur asks quietly, thinking of the man who had sent him off out here, into the woods. Who wore a mask to cover his face most days.

The picture stares back at him. The young man in it-- the young man who had Dream’s face-- looks stern. Wilbur stares for a moment longer, then turns to go. He leaves the picture, and ignores the unsettling feeling creeping down his spine.

\----

Things happen. People move. Tommy is living with Technoblade now, and Wilbur doesn’t question it. (He doesn’t think about his own involvement in his little brother’s torment.) Techno and Tommy often go off on their own, and Phil is busy and pales whenever he sees Wilbur, so Wilbur takes it upon himself to be scarce around the house and surrounding area. 

It’s no surprise that one day, he stumbles upon a familiar face.

Dream and him chat for a bit, mostly about nothing at all. Dream tries to weasel Tommy’s whereabouts from him, Wilbur deflects and plays naive. Wilbur talks about Friend, Dream tells him about the things happening in L’Manberg. Their chat is nice. Friendly, even. Dream is nice, he thinks, and then his mind helpfully supplies the memory from weeks ago now, when he had seen the picture frame and Dream’s face sitting on yellowed paper.

The memory startles him so much he stops moving, floating a few inches above the ground and staring off into the distance.

“Ghostbur?” Dream’s stopped as well, a few steps ahead of him, like he’d nearly missed how Wilbur had stopped moving. “You alright?”

“Just fine,” Wilbur assures him, but the image of Dream’s face, haunted, does not leave his mind. He floats forward again, smiling wide at Dream and trying to get the best peek around the mask he can.

Green eyes. Blond hair. A strong jaw, and freckles. Scars spattered across his skin, pale against the tan. 

“Hey, Dream?” He asks, watching as Dream turns his face back to the woods and they continue their trek. The snow crunches under Dream’s feet. 

“Yeah, Ghostbur?”

“Just wondering, how long have you been alive?” Wilbur’s voice is light. There’s an air of naivety around his words, clouding his eyes and mind like a child’s. It can be passed off as simple forgetfulness, a side effect of dying and going to the place where souls go once their lives have been eaten up. 

Dream’s eyes turn to him, a mixture of alarm and danger making them both stutter in their paths. For a second, Wilbur feels like he’s in trouble, Dream’s gait freezing and Wilbur’s shoulders shivering despite him not being able to actually feel the cold around them.

And then, in a flash, the moment has passed.

Dream smiles. “Pfft. I’m twenty-one. Seems like you forgot, silly.” Dream shifts, like he’s trying to elbow Wilbur, but it just sort of ends up going through his stomach. It’s mildly uncomfortable. “People do say I look older than I am, though,” Dream explains, and Wilbur can kind of see it. The scruff and the scars dusted across his face give him an aura of intimidation that is hard to reconcile with the young age of twenty-one.

Wilbur shrugs, and laughs some. “Well, actually,” he says, “I was going to say you look young.”

There’s that dangerous look again. Dream is tipping his head a bit, eyes landing on Wilbur, gaze cold and calculating. 

“I’m going to head home,” he says, and turns. “Goodnight, Ghostbur.”

Wilbur fights back the urge to remind Dream he’s homeless, and thinks of the man in the photo.

“Goodnight,” he calls out, then turns himself back in the direction of home. 


	14. written for a friend - cold winter nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> george's best friends are dumb. he loves them anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short little thing i wrote for a friend of mine! george is king, and sapnap is a knight and dream is a servant. it's cold out! 
> 
> this is the first time i've really written their dynamic by itself, so, if you like it, let me know!

The castle is cold.

That is not an understatement. The castle is chilly. It is freezing, bitter, nippy, brisk. The stones are ice-cold to the touch, despite the roaring fire in the fireplace across the room. Outside is a whirlwind of snow and ice, a mid-winter blizzard sinking it’s claws into the land as the days grow short and dark and the nights get longer and chillier. George hates winter-- this is no secret. Winter is the most boring season, with nothing to do but sit and try to stay warm. Travel isn’t an option, and neither is hunting or walking or anything else he finds remotely fun. 

Which had led him to this very moment in time, sitting bundled up on a couch and watching his two closest friends and employees stare silently at a chessboard.

“This is dreadful,” George complains, not for the first time. Sapnap hums, almost dismissive, which makes George’s royal heart practically swell with both fondness and annoyance. He reaches out, gently moving a pawn on the left side of the board.

By the looks of it, Dream is going to win. George says nothing about it though, eyes flicking between them and nose wrinkling. 

“Interesting,” Dream says, leaning back back in his seat and exhaling lightly. The breath from his mouth condenses in the chilly air, and he looks fierce. A dragon, confined to the stone walls of this palace and bound by heart strings connected to George’s own, wrapped up in Sapnap’s fingers. 

“What?” Sapnap glances up, then back down at the board. “I’m safe.”

“Sure,” Dream says, and his face betrays nothing. Actually, it betrays everything, but Sapnap is too busy studying the chessboard to notice. George is constantly entranced by both their faces and not a stupid game, so he has the true advantage here. 

“I’m cold,” he whines, watching as both their eyes flick to him.

“Want an extra blanket?” Dream asks. Sapnap just snickers, tucking his own legs up under his butt and glancing at the fire. He reaches out, snagging the poker, and makes it roar to life a bit more.

“No,” George says, tipping his chin up. 

“His Highness is uncomfortable,” Sapnap says, and Dream moves to get George another blanket despite George specifically saying that wasn’t what he wanted. He takes it anyways, letting Dream drape it around his shoulders and tuck it gently under his chin. “Dream, it’s your turn.”

Dream pats George’s face gently with a chilly hand, which he shies away from instinctually. “Right,” he says, turning away, and George huffs out another sigh. Back to their stupid chess game, which is looking more and more hopeless for Sapnap with every move Dream makes. Including this one. There’s another knight gone, and then Sapnap is pounding the carpeted floor with his fist. It’s cute, in a way. George watches as his eyebrows are drawn inwards, one calloused hand running over the side of his head and smoothing back errant strands of dark hair.

His gaze flicks to Dream, who meets his eyes evenly. They’d both been looking. George is suddenly glad for the chill, able to blame his pink cheeks on it.

Sapnap moves another piece, and Dream looks down, and the moment is lost. George sits there for a second more, and then sighs loudly.

“That is the third time you’ve done that in the past three minutes,” Sapnap says, looking up at him. George rolls his head back, extends a foot, and gently pokes at the pieces. Dream hasn’t moved his just yet, so it’s easy for George to lean over and poke at them himself.

“If you move your pawn here, and then Dream takes the bishop, and then that leaves the left side of the board wide open. If either of you had a brain, we’d be at checkmate already and you two could be focusing on more important things,” George explains, watching as both their heads tilt to the side.

“Prime,” Sapnap huffs, watching as the black and white pieces dance across the board in George’s fingers. “Look at that. Royal tutor must’ve done some good after all.”

Dream had been studying the board the same as Sapnap, but once George had toppled Sapnap’s king, he looks up. His eyes gleam. “More important things?” He questions, and George is certain this time that he’s flushing more than he should be.

“More important things,” George confirms, and Sapnap laughs, a little breathless.

“Liiiike?” He asks, reaching out to gently snag George’s hand. “Are you a more important thing?”

“Sapnap!” George tugs his hand back and out of Sapnap’s own, fingers clenched into a fist. They’re soothed a moment later, Dream’s own fingers curling around them.

“Forgive him, your highness. He’s so crude,” he says, faux-politeness making his words sticky and sweet. “We’ve let you get chilly. Sorry about that. Let me just--” Dream lifts George’s hand to his mouth, blowing warm air over his fingers and sneakily, pressing a kiss to them. George does not pull his hand away this time, letting his eyes narrow.

He’s gotten their attention, which is exactly what he was aiming to do. Now that he has it, however, he’s forgotten his intentions. That seems to be a trend with them, it feels like. The couch shifts as Sapnap crawls up by his side, dipping his head and tugging blankets to secure himself against George’s side.

“I’ll protect you,” Sapnap says, ignoring George’s shrieks as cold hands press against his neck and cheeks. “That’s my job.”

“You’re a horrible knight!” George complains, hiding his face in order to avoid the cold fingers aimed his way. Dream’s laughing, and his stomach turns and fills with butterflies that are most certainly out-of-season. “I can’t believe you two.”

“I can’t believe us either,” Dream says, and his tone is teasing as he settles on George’s other side. He doesn’t snuggle and worm his way in-- George simply lifts the blankets, inviting him under. “Ignoring the most important person in the room to play a silly game.”

“Off with your heads,” George says primly, but there’s a layer of fondness in his voice he can’t hide. “Worst attendants ever.” 

“Bullshit,” Sapnap says, and his head is on George’s shoulder now, hair tickling his cheeks and dusting over his nose. He sort of wants to sneeze. Arms curl around his middle, and Dream’s also tucked against his head, face turned and cheeks squished together.

“Is this better, my king?” Dream asks, and the butterflies in George’s stomach worm their way up and out of his mouth.

“Maybe a little better,” he admits, grudgingly. He’s warmer now, the chill from earlier having been chased away easily by the two pressed against his side. He feels lips on his jaw, then on the other side, against his cheek. Yes. This is much better.

Their chess game lay abandoned for now. George can only smile to himself. It’s all about the strategy.


	15. homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the canon tommy and tubbo meet up, but it's more sad.

The way their first meeting goes isn’t exactly how Tommy expected it to go.

It’s silly, really. Techno and Tommy were messing around, Techno with the faint hope of getting his weapons back as they messed around and fucked with Connor a little. His reactions were funny too-- the screaming and crying and pleading, and underneath it all, the nihilistic jokes. Connor was on three lives, after all. He’d be fine no matter what they did to him.

Connor’s also not a part of L’Manberg, technically. So Tommy’s not expecting Tubbo to actually show up as if this was a real hostage negotiation situation. He’s busy reeling Connor in on his fishing line when it happens. He’s expecting Ranboo, maybe Fundy, maybe even Big Q to come around the corner and talk this out with them. Not Tubbo.

Tubbo-- Tubbo who looks good. Tubbo who’s in a fucking Christmas sweater still, a hat lopsided on his face, cheeks red like he’d come outside unprepared for the cold. And he is-- he’s got no armor or gloves or boots on whatsoever. 

His expression, however, is  _ haunted _ .

Tommy stands there, hands going slightly lax on the fishing pole as Tubbo screeches to a stop in the thin layer of cold snow. They stand there, staring at each other. Tubbo’s face, which just a moment ago had been pink and full of life, is now blanched of all color. Tommy also feels like he’s been dipped in an ice bath, chill running down his spine as they just  _ look _ . 

“How?” Tubbo asks, and he’s breathless. “When Ranboo said-- you’re here. You’re really here.” The relief is clear on his face as he takes a step forward, then another, and then Tommy’s holding a hand up between them as anger boils through his veins again.

Tubbo had left him. 

“Don’t,” he says, spitting the words out and forcing the syllables so nothing else comes out, betrays him, betrays what he’s feeling in that soft, warm spot deep down inside. “Don’t come any closer,” he warns, and Tubbo stops in his tracks. Tommy can feel when his eyes flick from Tommy to the intimidating shape of Technoblade behind him, lurking just over his shoulder.

“What’s going on?” Tubbo finally asks, retreating a step backwards. Tubbo might not be wearing armor, but Ranboo is, and he clearly is seeking that protection based on the way Ranboo stands behind him, at his shoulder. Where Tommy had once stood.

“We’ve got a hostage,” Techno drawls, breaking the awkward tension between them and wrapping his fingers around the fishing line, giving Connor a tug. Connor-- who has clearly sensed the shift in mood here-- is wide-eyed and looking confused as he stumbles forward. “If you want his safe return, I’m going to need my stuff back. He’s worth what, a trident?” Techno gives Connor another tug. “Say you’re worth a trident.”

“I’m worth a trident,” Connor says immediately, because Techno is objectively frightening when he wants to be. 

“And maybe a pickaxe.” A meaningful look has Connor spitting out the same phrase, voice high-pitched.

“And maybe a pickaxe!” 

Tubbo is silent as he glances between the three of them, and Tommy can’t help but wonder what’s going on inside his head. As they stand there longer, he realizes-- this is the closest he’s been to Tubbo in weeks. Months, even. And he can’t recognize what’s going on behind his closed-off face. Months ago he would’ve known what he was thinking, known it before he opened his mouth-- but now. Now he has no idea, and the thought strikes utter terror into Tommy’s heart. It’s not the emotion he was expecting to feel, but it’s the one he’s feeling. 

“He’s not a citizen,” Tubbo says slowly. “I’m not really the person to be asking here. I-- Tommy, are you…” Tubbo trails off, then takes a breath. “Are you working with Techno?”

Tommy shifts on his feet, hoisting the fishing pole up onto his shoulder. “Yeah,” he says, glancing back. Techno’s still there, face dark, but when Tommy looks over he spares a toothy grin. And all of the sudden, he feels… powerful. “Yeah, I am,” he continues, because there’s that anger again. “I’m with Technoblade, because you couldn’t bother to come visit me when I was all fucking alone in exile. Exile that, may I remind you, you threw me into.” 

Tubbo looks sick. It makes the anger worse. “Tommy, I--”

“You never came to visit!” Tommy laughs, but it’s not funny at all. “I was all alone, losing my fucking mind, and you never came to see me.”

“I did!”

“No! You didn’t! And Dream said-- Dream said-- well, fuck what Dream said, but you still didn’t come. I had a party. I invited you. You never showed.”

“I came and visited him,” Techno says, and it warms Tommy’s heart a little bit, fans the fire roiling in his stomach. 

“See? Techno came to visit, but you never did.” Tommy grins, and he may not be able to read Tubbo’s mind anymore but he can recognize the way he’s shrinking backwards, the way he’s still clearly reeling with the idea that Tommy is in front of him. He’s weak. “So I’m on his fucking side right now.”

“He killed me,” Tubbo says, and his voice is hardly above a whisper. “He destroyed L’Manberg. He betrayed us.”

“Yeah, well, about that,” Tommy says, and suddenly there’s a sword in his hand and oh, how did that get there? He spins it easily, fingers clasping around the hilt as he shows off. “I’ve been spending some quality time with Tech, and he’s really not that bad!”

“I’m not,” says Techno, and then snorts a laugh. 

Tommy continues. “So, when it all comes down to it, I really think I’m picking the best side here. We’re going to get my fucking discs back, without your help, and we need Techno’s things to do it with. Which you have. Why do you have those, by the way?” Tommy turns slightly, something occurring to him that hadn’t before. Techno shrugs, then reaches a hand up to point with his pickaxe at a structure in the distance Tommy hadn’t noticed before this moment. It’s tall, and if he squints he can make out redstone shining slightly against dark wood.

“They tried to execute me,” Techno says, lowering his pickaxe. “Came to my house and threatened Carl, kidnapped me, arrested Phil. They dropped an anvil on me. I would’ve died, but thankfully I had a totem on me.” 

Tubbo tries to say something. “It was--”

Tommy hardly gives him a chance. “You tried to kill him?” Tommy whirls back around, and the anger is flashing so hot through his veins he can hardly stand it. “You tried to  _ execute _ him?”

“He’s a fucking terrorist!” Tubbo shouts, waving an arm out into the cold, breath spilling from him in warm clouds like dragon’s fire. “And apparently, so are you!” 

“This isn’t L’Manberg,” Tommy hisses, pointing up at the machine with his sword. “This isn’t  _ you _ . This isn’t what we fought for. What I fought for. What I sacrificed  _ everything _ for. You were supposed to be a good fucking leader, Tubbo!”

“I’m doing my best! I’m doing my best, Tommy! It’s not as easy as some people would think! I’m just trying to protect people!” Tubbo shouts, and Tommy shouts right back. 

“Protect people? What a fucking joke-- how? How are you protecting them? By exiling them? By abandoning them? By using them?” Tommy thrusts a finger towards Ranboo, who looks incredibly startled by his sudden importance to the narrative. “By being a terrible friend, and frankly, a fucking  _ worse _ president?” 

“You have no idea what I’ve been through,” Tubbo hisses, tears shining as they brew. “I am trying. I am trying so hard, but no one ever listens. I am trying to keep everyone safe--”

“Yeah?” Tommy grips the fishing pole, then gives it a solid tug. Connor is tugged forward, and suddenly his joking lead has turned into something legitimate. Tommy holds his sword up, and words spill out before he can stop them.

Maybe he doesn’t want to stop them.

“If you don’t give Techno his weapons back,” Tommy snarls, fingers tight against fishing wire and numb on the hilt of his sword, blade against Connor’s throat, “I will kill him. Not once. Not twice. Three. Times. And it will be your fault. You want to protect people? Then fucking do it.” 

Beside him, Connor trembles. His breath puffs up beside Tommy’s face, who’s also breathing heavy. Tubbo is silent. 

Behind him, Techno starts to slow-clap.

“Nice job, kid,” he says, and Tommy can hear the smile in his voice as he comes over and slaps a hand down on Tommy’s twisted shoulder, the one Connor isn’t being held against. There’s a swell of pride in Tommy’s chest, not unlike the one that would come whenever Wilbur praised him, whenever Phil said he’d done well. “Intimidating.” 

Tubbo is still silent. Tommy swallows, then presses the sword even closer to Connor’s throat. He whimpers. “Try me,” he says softly. Dangerously. “I dare you.” 

After a moment, he breaks. “Ranboo,” Tubbo says, not turning away from Tommy and Connor and Techno. “I need an ender chest.” 

“I’ve got one,” Techno says, and his hand disappears from Tommy’s shoulder in order for him to place a chest down in the middle of the two groups. Tubbo breaks Tommy’s gaze finally, glancing down to the chest and then carefully undoing the latch. He rifles through it for a moment, particles and ambient light making his face glow, before finally tugging out a pickaxe and a crossbow. He tosses Techno the pickaxe first, then sets the crossbow on the ender chest.

Distantly, Tommy recognizes that it’s the same one that killed Tubbo not so long ago. 

“I don’t have the trident,” Tubbo admits. “I hope this is okay.” 

“Who has the trident?” Techno asks, moving forward to pick up the crossbow and inspect it for damage. It must be fine, because he slings it over his back after a moment and picks up his ender chest again. Tubbo looks chilly in the absence of it’s light, and Ranboo’s back at his shoulder in an instant. 

“Fundy,” Tubbo says. “I’m not sure where he is right now. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Techno says. “I got what I came for. Part of it, at least.” 

There’s silence, and then Tommy lowers his sword from Connor’s face and throat and sheathes it. It takes a moment of awkward detangling, and then he’s free from the fishing rod as well. Tommy just tosses that onto the ground as Connor scampers away, cursing him out over his shoulder.

“I’m not fucking voting for you again!” He calls distantly as he bolts, and Tubbo winces. Techno snickers. The tension is palpable between them.

“We should go,” Techno says, clapping his hand on Tommy’s shoulder again. Tommy shrugs him off gently, because he agrees. Even still, he can’t tear his eyes away from Tubbo just yet. They’re frozen in place, glued to the rocks and dirt and snow, just for this moment.

Tubbo looks tired.

Tommy wonders what Tubbo’s seeing, what he’s thinking. Tommy certainly can’t parse it out.

“You comin’?” Techno’s already halfway to the prime path, speed pot in his hand and waiting for Tommy to follow. 

“Yeah,” Tommy breathes, and finally breaks their gaze to follow.

He doesn’t look back, pretending like his heart doesn’t ache.


	16. the longest hatstall in 100 years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tubbo is a lot of things. the hat is confused

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the GC and i were discussing harry potter headcanons one day and decided that tubbo would be a hatstall, bc he fits all the houses! and then eventually he'd just ask to follow tommy! it was cute, so i decided to write it.

The stool is quite uncomfortable.

Tubbo hadn’t thought so when he first sat down on it. Actually, he had thought it was quite comfortable for a regular old stool. No comfort enchantments seem to have been placed on it, like how they do broomsticks, since no one expects to be sitting on the sorting stool for more than a minute. Maybe two, at most.

Tubbo’s been sitting here for five minutes and thirty-four seconds. 

He’s officially a hatstall, and he knows it. His family’s born and bred wizard-folk-- he’s heard stories from his mum about the last hatstall when they were talking about the sorting ceremony a few weeks ago. Some girl had apparently sat up in front of everyone for five minutes and thirty-nine seconds, before the hat had shouted out a resounding _HUFFLEPUFF_! 

Tubbo shifts, glancing around the large hall and swinging his feet aimlessly. Everyone looks a little bored. Hell, even he feels bored. He just wants to be Sorted already. Tommy’s at the Gryffindor table, grinning widely even though it’s been so long since Tubbo had sat down beside him. He’s happy for Tommy-- the other had been raving about being sorted into Gryffindor for ages now.

 _Has he?_ The hat asks, sounding slightly amused. _Well, tell him I had no doubt. You on the other hand…_

“What?” Tubbo asks, then winces at how loud he sounds in the hall. People have started to whisper. He feels his spine shrinking in on itself a bit, and suddenly does not feel very brave.

 _You_ **_are_ ** _brave_ , the hat says. _Which is half of the problem. Or may I say, one-quarter. Brave, smart, loyal, cunning. All of these apply to you. But which to choose?_

They’ve had this pseudo-conversation about four times already, the words floating through Tubbo’s head as the hat hems and haws. As the times before, his answer is the same.

“Whichever you think is best,” he says, and the hat lets out a frustrated growl.

 _Have some conviction, boy,_ it grumbles, and then finally, seems to sigh and slump on his head. It ends up covering half of his vision, and Tubbo reaches up to gently fix it carefully. _Fine. What House do you want to be in, then?_

“Hm.” Tubbo flicks his gaze over each House table, the kids sitting there. His mum’s a Hufflepuff-- _ah yes, I recall her, a lovely girl, heart of gold-_ \- and his father was a Ravenclaw-- _another smart one. Bright future ahead, you’re from prime crop_ \-- but Tubbo doesn’t really feel any sort of pull towards either of those Houses. They seem nice, sure, but all the Houses seem nice. Except Slytherin, maybe. Even then, Tommy’s eldest brother is in Slytherin and is one of the nicest people Tubbo knows. 

“I’d like to go wherever Tommy goes,” he reasons a second later, eyes landing on the Gryffindor table. Tommy waves frantically, then promptly gets tugged back down into his seat by one of the prefects, an insanely tall, serious-looking boy. “He’s my best friend.” 

_Gryffindor?_ The hat hums to itself. Tubbo shifts on the seat awkwardly. They’re edging on to six minutes and thirty seconds. _You’re already a record-setter,_ the hat tells him a moment later. _Sitting up here for so long. Never in the limelight, you are, and yet you’d do anything for a friend. Yes, yes, I can see it now. Greatness lies within you, and you’ll follow your friend into…_

“GRYFFINDOR!” The hat finally shouts. The breath of relief in the Great Hall is palpable, only overshadowed by the ecstatic shouts coming from the Gryffindor table and Tommy himself, who’s shot out of his seat and is bouncing in circles as he yells excitedly.

“That was certainly interesting,” says the professor who’d placed the hat on his head, raising an eyebrow at him. Tubbo hands the hat back over with a lopsided grin. “One for the record-scrolls, I believe.”

“Six minutes and twenty-eight seconds!” Tubbo chirps. “Can’t wait to write mum about it.” He slips off the uncomfortable stool and doesn’t hesitate to bound to the side, meeting Tommy halfway and grinning the whole time. School is going to be fun, he thinks.


	17. aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ranboo finds a new home, and picks a side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written the night of january 6th. ranboo is finding a new home with sbi and i support it

Ranboo’s still shaking a little.

The aftermath of panic attacks is never fun, but it’s a feeling he’s intimately familiar with. The world comes a little more into focus, his hands shake, his sides settle. Usually he forgets a lot about what he was upset about-- tonight, he can’t. The events of the day were too heartbreaking, too traumatic, too much. Everything had been too much. He’d been on the verge of a complete and utter breakdown on the beach when Phil’s message had come through on his communicator.

_Ph1lzA: doin okay m8?_

Ranboo had leaked sticky tears onto the sand as he wrote back.

_Ranboo: not particularly._

From there, Phil’s actions had been meaningful. He had come all the way back to L’Manberg-- the remains of L’Manberg-- and had picked him up. Phil had walked Ranboo through the ruins and picked their way through the dust and debris, ignoring the others they occasionally saw in the wreck. Phil had joked with him, light-hearted and so overwhelmingly kind. He’d dragged Ranboo down off of the edge and into something resembling normal. 

Ranboo doesn’t want to take sides, but Phil makes it feel good. 

He scribbles their names in his book under his friends list, happy to watch as Techno cleans and sharpens his weapons, happy to watch as Phil shows him the dog house and the turtle farm. His stomach settles. His hands still shake, but they’re calming down as time passes. By the time night settles over the land, Ranboo can hardly taste the smoke in his mouth and everything is calm.

“And like I was sayin’, the thing with the dogs is I actually wanted to use half the potions on ‘em. So there were like, invisible dogs runnin’ around and no one had a clue!” Techno’s grand with his gestures when he tells his stories, and Phil laughs like he was born to. Ranboo likes the sound of it, and he sips the tea Phil had brewed them all earlier mildly as Techno goes on about the dogs. He’d fought today, and his muscles are sore, and the tension from the panic earlier today is also making him ache. The tea soothes him, and quietly, he closes his eyes, leaning against the wood of Techno’s home and content to just listen. He’s exhausted.

He must doze, because when he gains some sense of awareness next, it’s to someone touching his head and soft voices floating around him.

“He’s so tall,” Techno says, and his voice is low. “It’s not fair.”

“Did you see him next to Tubbo? Ridiculous,” Phil says gently, and there’s his laugh again. “He’s a good kid, Techno. I like him. Today was--”

Both of them fall into silence for a moment. Someone’s still touching his hair. Based on the smell of dynamite and firework charges, it’s Techno.

“He reminds me of you,” Phil continues after a second. “When you were younger. Before the empire.”

“Really? Why?” Techno sounds intrigued. 

“Wanting to trust in people. Believing that they’ll do their best. And you’re both hybrids,” Phil explains, and Ranboo can hear soft shuffling as someone shifts in their seat. 

“Hm. I guess I can see the resemblances. Maybe. He’s definitely not as good at PVP as me, though,” Techno says, and his voice echoes in the room, whispery. There’s the flicker of fire behind his eyelids.

“No one’s as good at PVP as you, Tech. That’s just a given,” Phil says, and then they’re quiet again. Something tugs in his hair gently, and Techno grunts.

Ranboo quietly opens an eye, and finds Phil staring at him from across the room. He snaps it shut, but there’s a snicker, so he carefully opens both eyes again. Phil is smiling. 

“You should sleep,” Phil said gently. “Both of you.”

“Sleep is for the weak,” Techno says, and then stutters. “But, uh. Not sayin’ you’re weak, Ranboo. Or Phil.” Something shuffles, then the movement against his head stops and Techno is visible again as he comes around the side of Ranboo. Gently, Ranboo lifts his fingers and feels around where he had felt Techno’s hands, and there, sitting against the side of his scalp, feels like a little french braid.

Techno’s long hair is pulled back into a ponytail right now, but Ranboo sees the braids keeping it off his face. Phil’s got his own, tucked against the side of his head. He’d seen Tommy’s braid before when his hair got long, and how he’d snipped it off last night and cut his hair short again.

The gesture is not lost on him.

“I’ll think I’ll sleep, yeah,” he agrees, not mentioning it. “Thanks for letting me stay here.”

“We did blow up your house and most of your belongings,” Techno points out, and Phil winces slightly. “It’s only fair.”

“Still,” Ranboo says, uncurling himself from his spot on the floor and stretching out. He can touch the ceiling. Edward chirps, and Ranboo chirps back. “Thanks.”

“No problem, mate,” Phil says, his voice still low. “We help family.” Ranboo’s breath catches in his chest and he pauses, standing there for a second, and then slowly shaking himself back into movement. The room is dim, and Ranboo carefully makes his way towards the ladder and towards the upstairs where Phil had shown Ranboo where he could sleep earlier in the day, during the short tour. “Night.”

“Night,” Ranboo returns the sentiment, thumbing over the edge of his book, kept close against his torso. Yeah, he thinks. Yeah, things might be alright if he’s here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FOR ANY AUTHORS OUT THERE!!! I'VE MADE A DISCORD !!!! IF YOU WRITE MCYT FIC FEEL FREE TO DM ME ON MY TWITTER OR LEAVE A COMMENT!


	18. are we friends?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a conversation that really should've taken place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrote this before the sixth! it's everything i thought they needed to talk about. i'm.... well. i'm not happy with how they're regressing. tbh

This conversation is one that has been a long time coming.

There's no easy camaraderie now. The days of their friendship where everything came easy and fair is now gone, and instead, it's awkward. It's fragile. Tommy has said horrible things and Tubbo has done some unspeakable actions. But they're here, and it's... it's a start. They're in Tommy's first house, the old house, the one made out of dirt. They had kicked Connor out in favor of taking it over, and now, Tubbo sits across the room on the crafting table and swings his legs. It's such a _Tubbo_ thing to do that it physically pains Tommy, it reminds him of simpler times, when they'd sit in this house and laugh for hours on end.

Neither of them are even smiling now.

"I'm sorry," Tommy says, because there's nowhere else to start. "For everything, everything with the discs, and what I said-- I didn't mean it. I was just.. angry."

"I know." Tubbo's always been so fucking forgiving. He's not looking at Tommy quite yet, but his mouth does pull up into a wry smile. "You've always been angry."

"And I'm sorry for it." Tommy thinks maybe apologies are a good place to start with him. Just start apologizing on the spot to everyone, now. 

"I know." Tubbo takes a breath, lifts his head. "But I can't quite forgive you just yet."

It's like a lightning bolt shot through Tommy's stomach, hot and scalding. " _What_?" He exclaims, and there's the anger again, rushing through him like a flood, fueled by the shock of the sentiment. 

"I can't," Tubbo says, lifting a hand to gesture gently. His clothing is rumpled. It's clear he hasn't slept. "And you can't forgive me for what I did to you." Tommy has already forgiven Tubbo, even if neither of them will admit it, so Tommy stubbornly keeps his mouth shut. "We both did horrible, terrible things, Tommy. Some of it was our fault. Some of it wasn't. Some of it..." Tubbo trails off, eyes vacant, and Tommy wants desperately to drag him down to earth. But he can't, so he waits, and Tubbo comes down himself. "...I can't forgive you," Tubbo says quietly. "and you can't forgive me. I think that's something we'll have to be okay with."

"Oh," Tommy says, meeting Tubbo's gaze firmly. They're on equal footing when Tubbo's sitting on the workbench. "...so.. does that mean we're friends again?"

Tubbo's face crumples, and then he's looking away again. "No." 

Somehow, this hurts more than the previous statement.

"Oh," Tommy says. "okay." Then, a moment later: "Why?"

"I don't think I can be friends with you again, just yet," Tubbo explains, and his hands come up to his chest as he whirls them around a bit. "It's just-- everything that's happened, everything that's going to happen-- I can't say you're my friend right now. I hurt you and you hurt me and it's not healthy, Tommy, and I don't think. I don't think it ever _was_."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Tommy asks, tears pricking at his eyes. He doesn't bother to try and wipe them away just yet.

"I was thinking about what Dream said," Tubbo says, and Tommy spits on the ground. Fucking prick. "And he was right."

"What the hell?" Tommy pushes himself off the chest he was leaning against. "Tubbo, no he wasn't--"

"But he _was_!" Tubbo laughs, a hollow thing, an echo of the kid that used to inhabit this body. “I'm a pushover. I’m too nice. I'm a yes man. All someone has to do is butter me up and I'm ready to go. I trust people too easily, and then I get hurt. Then other people get hurt, like you or Ranboo or Niki or anyone. L’manberg gets hurt, and I'm the president, so it's my job to keep people safe."

"Like how you kept me safe?" It comes out scathing. Tommy regrets it immediately, ducking his head, and by Tubbo's sigh he knows the silent apology is acknowledged. 

"I know. but that's my point, Tommy. I let Dream make me exile you. I did it for L’manberg, but..." He trails off again. "... I don't know. all I do know is I need to start building some walls, I think. At least for today. For today, I need to be focused. We both do."

"More is at stake," Tommy says, and Tubbo nods his head.

"We can do this," he says quietly. "I promise. But I can't do it as both your friend and president of L'manberg. When it's over and done with, we'll see. But for now, I need to choose, and I'm choosing L'manberg."

"I understand," Tommy says, because he does.

They both sit there in silence for a little bit. It’s uncomfortable. It shifts and swirls around them both, this knowledge that they’re not friends again, even now, after everything that had happened. Someone passes by the house-- a flash of netherite, and they’ve got potatoes in their arms, heading towards the supplies chests Tommy hopes. Maybe it’s Purpled. Maybe it’s Puffy. Maybe it’s Eret, who had hurt them both the first time and initiated the downwards spiral of betrayal they’re now stuck in. Whoever it is, it’s not Dream. 

“I really thought you were dead,” Tubbo says gently, and Tommy knows they’ve gone down similar brain-paths. They think together, even now. Tubbo’s staring out the front door, where the netherite had shown through the dirt and wood. “I went to find you and I saw-- I saw the tower, and the crater, and I thought you jumped.”

Tommy can’t say anything. What do you say to that?

“I grieved,” Tubbo says, wringing his fingers in his lap. “I held a funeral. You’ve got a gravestone, you know, behind L’Manberg, in the forest. We all grieved. Your compass--” Tubbo’s voice seems to clog up then, and he takes a second. “Your compass broke, but I kept it. I thought maybe one day it would stop spinning, and I’d follow it, and find you. It was a stupid dream, but one I kept having. And… and I thought it was my fault that it was this way. I exiled you. I-- I thought you wouldn’t want to see me, because you seemed so angry when you left. The guilt was so _heavy_ , Tommy. I didn’t know what to do, and everyone just... kept telling me different things.”

Gently, Tommy pulls out his compass from where it hangs around his neck. It points to their left, out the door, towards L’Manberg. Tubbo’s country. Not towards Tubbo really, but in spirit it does. Tubbo’s looking at him now, at the compass in his hand, how it’s still in pristine condition despite everything. It was the one thing Tommy had kept safe out of all his belongings. The one thing he kept closest to his heart. 

“When you didn’t visit,” he says, “I thought you hated me. I thought you never wanted to see me again, all because of a dumb mistake and my fucking stubborn head. Dream… he… he pulled on that. He said he was my friend. He buttered me up.” 

The compass needle shifts slightly, resetting in it’s position as it finds the lodestone again and again, somewhere in L’Manberg. Tubbo shifts gently on the workbench. The world around them is quiet.

“He said he was my only friend,” Tommy tells him. “And I believed it for a little. He’d blow up my things and hit me and be angry, sometimes, but other times he’d let me cry on his shoulder. He showed up to my party.” The thought of the beach party sends a wave of familiar anger down his spine, red-hot. He doesn’t want to think about it. “He sabotaged my party.” 

“I’m sorry,” Tubbo whispers. It’s not his fault, Tommy knows this, but it still stings.

“I built that tower to jump off of,” he admits. He hasn’t said that out loud to anyone. Not even Techno, who just seemed to know inherently that Tommy was struggling. He hadn’t needed to say it out loud. Saying it out loud, now, makes it feel more real and much, much more terrifying. Tubbo’s sharp inhale just settles the matter in stone, but Tommy forges onwards. “But once I got up there, in the clouds, I could see… I could see everything. Logsteadshire, my tent-- the beach. The woods. Everything. And I realized he was just there to keep an eye on me. Not be my friend. He was just… watching. And I thought to myself, _why would he want to watch me?_ Because he’s scared? 

Because he knows what I could do to him if I tried? And it all started to click into place and I knew Techno lived somewhere off south so I… I jumped. Into the water. And I left.”

They both sit there in silence for a moment, letting all of their horrors sink in. Tubbo is staring at his hands. Tommy is staring at Tubbo. Neither of them breathe.

“We’re kind of fucked up, aren’t we?” Tubbo says after a second, and it’s so true that it makes Tommy laugh breathlessly. 

“We so totally are,” he agrees. “All because of one green bitch.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s all his fault,” Tubbo reasons, tipping his head and meeting Tommy’s gaze. “But he _definitely_ did not help.” They both smile at each other, laughter borne of pain and suffering and awkwardness. They’ve both been through so much, and Tommy’s heart twists a little.

“I know we’re not friends right now,” he says, and it tastes like a lie, “but can… Can I hug you?”

Tommy’s not built for comfort. He’s sharp angles and edges, knife-like teeth and thorns. Despite that, Tubbo’s head tucks neatly under his chin and their arms layer over each other like they were meant to be there. Tommy… Tommy knows he hugged Techno a couple days ago, but Tubbo’s clinging on to him so tightly it makes him wonder when the last time someone even touched him. They stand there and they hug and Tommy wonders if he will look back at this memory with fondness or sadness after today, or if he won’t be able to look back at all. Fear rises in his stomach for a brief moment, and someone’s outside the door and chattering about diamonds and enchantments and war preparations, but in this second, Tommy allows himself a silent moment of peace.

He thinks it’s the least they deserve.


	19. soulmate au pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> soulmates are bonds. what happens when one is broken?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> continuation of the soulmate au i did before! lol tommy's not dead but when he jumped you could say he was reborn!

One day, Tubbo wakes up to a broken compass and an empty wrist.

The delicate skin of his forearm is empty, void of any trace of gleeful yellow disc. It’s empty. It’s gone. And the compass (which was cracked and dented but still functioning until now) was spinning wildly in every direction.

Tubbo sees these two things and immediately fears the worst.

He goes to the Nether, stumbling over hastily placed cobble bridges and wooden structure, legs and lungs burning as he fights back tears and throws himself through the portal that he knows leads to Logsteadshire, the one he knows leads to Tommy, the one he hasn’t been able to go through since all of this started for fear of guilt and friendship lost.

On the other side of said portal sits a wasteland.

He takes in the cold, dreary day with morbid curiosity. He scours what must’ve been Tommy’s tent for any sign of him, and then he finds the remains of Ghostbur’s Logsteadshire. It’s been blown to bits, a crater being the only thing left of it. And above it--

Above it is a tower, looming high into the sky.

Tubbo connects the dots in one single, terrible moment, and crumples to his knees.

Losing a soulmate is fairly common. People drift apart, people argue, people become less than friends and soulmates move on. Soulmates are meant to be people who shape your life in the moment and come and go as they must-- they’re core people, even if they’re fleeting. Tubbo’s lost soulmates before, one or two. But that had been a gradual loss of interest as they grew up, as they moved on without each other.

When you lose a soulmate through death, it’s more brutal.

There’s a part of him that’s missing now, he thinks. There’s a hole inside where someone used to sit, used to joke, used to laugh. That part of him is hollow and empty and he can feel it so prominently there might not be anything left of him at all. Tubbo somehow manages to drag himself back to L’Manberg. Quackity’s the first person to find him then, Tubbo stumbling through wooden streets with a vacant stare. The vice-president’s casual grin is quickly replaced by concern, and then once Tubbo’s stammered out something resembling an explanation, grief and pity. As much as Q and Tommy had clashed in those past few days, they’d been good friends before. And it hurts. Tubbo’s whole self hurts, like a wave of pain he can’t fight off and just when he thinks it’s over, it crashes over him again and again and again. He can't bring himself to cry-- he's already drowning.

He spends a day in Ranboo’s house, then Fundy’s, then back to Ranboo’s. He traces the spot on his wrist where Tommy’s soulmark had laid, wishing and praying for it to return. He clutches the spinning compass close to his chest. He doesn’t leave Ranboo’s house much-- there’s a funeral. Tubbo forces himself to give a speech, words hollow and empty and written by some part of himself that is hardly conscious at this point.

Philza and Technoblade lurk at the back of the funeral. Tubbo meets their gaze during his speech, and does not bring any attention to them. He knows that if anything, they’ve lost something just as precious if not more. He can’t bring himself to cause conflict now-- even Big Q is quiet, keeping his hands in his lap and eyes strictly on the gravestone.

Phil disappears the next day, house empty and left to the dust.

“He’s probably gone to find Techno,” Ranboo reasons, taking Tubbo’s still-full and cold cup of tea away from him and replacing it with a fresh one. “It makes sense.”

“Yeah,” Tubbo says, not touching the new mug and staring out the window. “I guess it does.”

He traces the lines of his wrist over, and over, and over.

“You can’t stay like this,” Niki says gently on his third day spent inside, coals sparkling gently in her eyes. There’s the start of a fire there. 

“Watch me,” Tubbo tells her. He doesn’t mean to sound rude, but if he tries to go outside he thinks he just might crumble under the pressure of the atmosphere.

Niki leaves, speaking quietly with Ranboo outside like Tubbo might not realize they’re discussing him. 

It takes him four more days of quiet mourning to get himself to go outside. Another day before he’s even ready to face the gravesite again, a small, simple stone. Time doesn’t feel real. He stands in front of the tiny thing and stares. The world passes by him and suddenly it’s dark and he’s alone. No mobs bother him-- Tubbo’s not dumb, he’s a kid raised in war, and he knows the flash of enchanted netherite when he sees it. Silently, he thanks the mystery defender as he leaves later that night, his quiet vigil over.

His wrist is empty of color and his grief is immense.

Someone will pay.


	20. i hope you die.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> quackity has a dream. schlatt is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by the song "No Children" by The Mountain Goats! that song is absolutely schaltt and quackity's song-- it just fits so well. deadass considering a tattoo of the lyrics.

“Well, that’s an ugly addition to your face.”

Quackity startles, shoulders flinching, and then he’s right there.

“Schlatt?” His voice echoes across the empty darkness, and Schlatt’s wearing the outfit from the sixteenth. A torn shirt. Messy pants, stained with grass and mud and ash. He’s got a bottle in hand, his hair’s messy from a helmet torn off in either rage or upset, Quackity’s not sure. He’s… he’s never been able to read Schlatt. The real Schlatt. No matter how much he wanted to try, no matter how much he thought he might know the other better than anyone else, he knows even he’s not privy to what’s really going on inside Schlatt’s head.

They stand there, three feet apart, and Schlatt raises the bottle.

“The scar,” he says, tipping his hand towards it. “Ugly. But kinda dope.”

Right. Quackity’s hand unconsciously goes to his face, where the scar remains from his death. His real death. His final death, the one Techno took from him in a dark stone hallway with a pickaxe through his teeth. The scar is an ugly thing, ripping across his face and through the left side of his lips, pale against his skin. He doesn’t like it, but Tubbo tells him it makes him look tough. Quackity sure doesn’t feel tough. Especially not now, staring Schlatt down.

“This is a dream,” Quackity realizes a moment later. “I’m asleep.” He can remember now-- he can remember lying down in bed, thinking about everything, about L’Manberg, about Technoblade, about their plans and the Butcher Army. He knows he’s asleep.

“Riiiight,” Schlatt says, bringing the bottle back to his mouth and taking a swig. “Asleep. Sure.”

“Why’re you here?” Quackity demands. Something in him has hardened since his last death, something that had once been soft and allowing is now as cold and unmoving as literal stone. “After everything, you finally decide to show your face?”

“Well,” Schlatt says, and the bottle in his hand shifts, flickering between memories of bottles from the past. “I’ve been here the whole time, actually. Just kinda. Watchin’.” Schlatt takes another swig. “You’ve been doin’ a good job carrying on my legacy, baberino.”

“I am not carrying on your legacy,” Quackity hisses, and then he’s pinning Schlatt up against an invisible dark wall, hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt. The bottle drops, shattering at both their feet as Quackity shoves him up against the solid thing and presses him back, hard. “I’m doing better than you ever did, you-- you--” His hands loosen. The fabric under his fingers feels real, and Schlatt’s body is pressed warm against his own. “You ruined everything,” Quackity says. “Everything. It was because of you.”

“You need someone to blame,” Schlatt says, and his voice is… it’s gentle. That infuriates Quackity more than if it had been argumentative. “And that someone’s me, huh? Well.” Somehow, imperceptibly, the bottle is back in Schlatt’s hand. “So be it.”

“Fuck you,” Quackity spits, pushing him up against the wall again and giving him a shake before letting go. He takes a step back, tears his beanie off, runs a hand through his hair-- for some reason, Q’s heart is racing, and he doesn’t understand why. His final life, pulsing in his chest and reminding him every day of his fragile existence. Reminding him how easy it could be to flee. 

“Coward’s way out,” Schlatt calls from his spot leaning against the dark wall. He’s always been able to get in Quackity’s head and even now, he hates it. It had been charming at first. Then it had gotten grating. Now, it fills him with unspeakable rage.

“Shut up,” he says, but doesn’t move towards him again. Schlatt does it anyway, taking the three steps forward and radiating devil’s heat from behind him. Quackity intimately aware of how close he is, can smell the alcohol and vomit on his breath from here. Can smell the decay. “Get away from me.” 

Schlatt doesn’t. Instead, fingers wrap around Quackity’s wrist, caging him in. He’s caught. Everything’s been caught and found out and Quackity is about to be ruined. Except-- Schlatt’s not president, and Quackity’s alive and Schlatt is dead and nothing will ever be the same. He moves to rip his grip from Schlatt’s hand, but as he does Schlatt is gone from behind him and in front instead. His fingers are still around his wrist, somehow.

“Remember what I said?” Schlatt says, and his eyes are dark with death and rot. “Back at the White House? We shared votes, Quackity. We were powerful together.” Reminders of a dark night, of an explosive fight, of a ring twisting around his finger and keeping him in place like a shackle. “You’re coming down with me,” Schlatt says, and his fingers twist around Quackity’s wrist. He’s falling backwards, sinking into something thick and dark and viscous, and Quackity is somehow being pulled in with him no matter how much he tries to pull away. “Hand in unlovable hand.” 

Quackity wakes up with the taste of whiskey and death on his lips, and does not fall asleep again for a long, long while. 


	21. traitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ranboo and eret have a conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "traitor" is a terrible word and i can never look at it the same i wrote it SO MANY TIMES SO MANY TIMES IM DONE WIRItnG th ETWORKD TRIATOR

It takes a surprisingly long time to find the man he’s looking for.

Eret is elusive, to say the least. Hell, even Technoblade and Phil were easier to find than he is. Ranboo bounces between Hbomb, Puffy, running past Connor with a question, hell, he’s on the verge of asking Tommy and Tubbo where they think the man might be when he finally finds him. In hindsight, the answer was obvious, really.

The museum is big and mostly empty and the sounds of knocking and building reverberate around the space as Ranboo walks past. He hasn’t been living here long, and spoken with Eret even less, but he’s already sort of figured the guy out to be the one who cares the most about preserving history.

The museum is big and cold and without a roof, and Ranboo enters it hesitantly, huge quartz pillars framing the entrance as he peers inside. A replica Camarvan sits in the center, a piece of a wall he never got to see. A map of their world. One that needs to be updated. A flag, burnt and spotted with holes sits to the side. It’s the one he’d left here a few days ago-- one he’d pulled from the wreckage himself.

“Hello?” He calls, and his voice echoes. The sounds of knocking stops. “Eret?”

There’s terrible silence for a minute and Ranboo’s anxiety kicks up, maybe he’s found someone else and not Eret--

And then boots thump as someone crashes to the ground, and the king himself appears out from behind a half-built wall. His crown is missing and so is his jacket and cape, and instead, he’s casual. Ranboo feels overdressed suddenly in his outfit built for the cold, and his shoulders hunch inwards a bit. He thinks it makes him look smaller. He thinks it helps people be more comfortable around him, with how tall he is.

“Oh, Ranboo.” Eret’s voice is kind and they slip the hammer held in their hands onto a spot on their belt. “I thought that was your voice. What’s up?”

Ranboo’s suddenly nervous, glancing down at his hands and fiddling with his fingers. After a moment, he takes a breath. “I had a couple of questions,” he asks, thinking back to the day when he’d given that speech in the foundations of Eret’s fortress, and Eret had spoken up, mouth in a hard line. “Traitor to traitor?”

Eret’s face falls. 

“Ah,” he says, head tipping to the side. The sunglasses hide the true nature of where his gaze lies. It’s both anxiety-inducing and comforting all at once. “You know, I hate that word.” 

“I’m sorry--”

Eret waves a hand, looking bashful all of the sudden, like he’s recognized Ranboo’s anxiety. “No, no, you’re fine. Really. I understand why you’d use it.”

A beat. “Uhm. Yeah, that’s… that’s why I’m here,” Ranboo says, and Eret nods. It’s silent for another moment, awkwardness permeating the air, then Eret gestures to the scaffolding.

“Come on up,” he says, then starts to climb. “The view’s gorgeous. Well-- sort of. Half of the view is gone now, but.” 

Ranboo goes up. The scaffolding is unsteady under his hands and feet, but they both make it to the top of the wall Eret was clearly in the middle of building. There are buckets of material everywhere, and stone littering the wide expanse as Eret goes over to one edge. He plops down, and Ranboo joins him. It’s sunset-- he’d spent the whole day walking over and then looking for Eret, so now the sky is dappled with orange and gold.

“So what did you want to ask me?” Eret asks after a second of silence, as they both appreciate the view. In the distance, smoke still rises, evidence of small fires from the crater that was once L’Manberg. The wound in the earth is fresh, and Ranboo’s visited every day since Doomsday. He wonders if it’s part of the healing process-- or maybe he just needs to let go.

Ranboo drags himself back and considers the question. What did he want to ask Eret?

He settles on: “Why’d you do it?” Eret sighs, long and heavy.

“Another haunting phrase to hear. I can never escape that question, it seems,” he says, leaning back on his palms. Ranboo stiffens, nerves creeping down his spine.

“You don’t have to answer if--” He starts, but Eret laughs, deep and calm.

“No, no, it’s alright. Really, Ranboo. It’s nice to talk to you. There are some things, actually, that I wanted to talk to you about,” he explains, and the way that he avoids answering Ranboo’s original question does not go unnoticed. For now, though, Ranboo lets it slide.

“Oh?” He asks. Eret had wanted to talk to him?

“Yes.” Eret smiles, glancing over at Ranboo behind their sunglasses. They seem so confident even now, but under that surface layer is… something else. Ranboo might think it’s regret, or sadness. “See, I was a conscious traitor. I knew what my actions were doing. I didn’t know-- well. I didn’t know Dream would take their lives, but I knew what me turning my back on them would do otherwise. It was a choice I struggled with. Still do,” they explain, lifting a hand and pointing out across L’Manberg. “I want to help, now.”

“Mhm.” Ranboo nods.

Eret lets their hand fall again to their lap, turning to look at him again. “But the thing is, you Ranboo, you’re not really a traitor.”

Ranboo starts a little bit, whipping his head to look at Eret. “But… I am? My memory book? Everything I wrote down? How I went to Tommy and Technoblade?” His shoulders hunch unconsciously. “I betrayed everyone.”

Eret sighs, long and heavy. “Did you intend to cause any pain?”

“Well. No. But my book--” He hardly gets a chance to explain, Eret waving a hand in the air and cutting him off.

“Did you willingly give that up?” He asks. Ranboo’s fingers still in his lap, and he tips his head.

“...what?” He asks.

“Did you willingly give Dream your book? Or Quackity?” Eret asks. Ranboo thinks back, but like almost everything in his memory, he cannot seem to remember for the life of him if he did. Would he? The confusion rattles in his stomach, knocking around and bruising his insides.

“...I don’t think I would remember even if I did,” he admits gently. Eret hums, and is silent for a second.

“But right now,” he says. “Thinking about what Dream has done, to you, to Tommy, to everyone-- would you hand him your book and the secrets it holds?”

That, at least, is something Ranboo can answer certainly. “No,” he says.

“There you have it,” Eret proclaims. “Not a traitor.”

“But--”

“Not a traitor. Just someone who was taken advantage of.” Eret breathes out, and Ranboo feels something… settle in his stomach, like a stone sinking to the bottom of a pond. “No one here dislikes you, Ranboo. We’ve all got our demons, but no one hates you. Not Big Q, or Niki, or Tubbo. Not even Tommy, and he always sees the worst in everyone these days.” 

“...you think?” Ranboo asks, thinking of Tommy's angry words, Tubbo’s tired indifference, Niki’s righteous flames.

Eret nods. “I know. You’re the one thing we seem to all have in common, even if it’s to a miniscule degree.” Somewhere, in a cold tundra, a renowned fighter holds an axe in his lap and traces his fingers across the blade, eyes staring sightlessly out the window into the snow.

Ranboo’s fingers twist in his lap, and he looks out upon the land that has become his home. “I… I need to think about this. Before I forget,” he says, and his fingers itch to write it down and make it so he can remember this conversation. He needs to remember this-- he needs to remember he’s not a traitor, never was, and that people have faith in him. He’s not sure what he’d do if he ever forgot that.

“Of course,” Eret says, not moving as Ranboo shifts to get up and unfurl himself from where they’d been seated.

“Thank you, Eret.” Ranboo holds his hand out, and Eret gently slaps his own palm into his. They shake for a brief moment, and then Ranboo lets go.

“Anytime, Ranboo. If there’s anything you don’t forget-- it’s.” Eret’s mouth twists, but then it’s forced into a smile. “You’re not a traitor, Ranboo. You’re too good to join our ranks.”

“....thanks,” Ranboo says gently. The scaffolding shifts under his feet.

“Goodnight, kid.”

“Night.”


	22. excuse me mr minecraft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ranboo gets sick. phil is a dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehehe inspired by twt and tiktok stuff ive seen
> 
> ALSO R.I.P. EDWARD I MISS YOU MAN.

It’s three am on a Tuesday morning when Phil is awoken by the soft sounds of Enderman noises.

At first, his mind goes to Edward, who is just downstairs beneath him and sitting in a boat. Then, his groggy mind catches up with himself, and he remembers Techno’s grief at one of his dogs accidentally killing Edward three days ago.

_ Right _ , he thinks to himself, hands reaching for the netherite sword he keeps at his bedside.  _ We’ve got an intruder. _

An intruder who is standing at the door of his bedroom, having already opened it, hunched over and sniffling. The faint lantern light from the hall backlights a tall, imposing, dark figure. Phil panics for a brief, fleeting moment, fingers scrambling for the hilt of his sword as he sits up and scrubs at his eye with the other hand. His heart races.  _ Someone’s gotten in the house _ \-- but then he settles. 

A wet noise comes from the person in his doorway. “Uhm, excuse me Mr. Minecraft,” it starts, and Phil thanks whatever gods above or below that his reaction time has slowed since the time he spent with the Empire. “I--I needed to let you know--”

“Deep breath,” Phil says instinctually, squinting his eyes in the dark and letting the hilt drop from his fingers, instead splaying his hand over his chest. Stupid tall kids and their stupidly frightening figures. 

“I threw up,” Ranboo says, because it’s clearly him. “and I don’t know how to-- how to--” He breaks off into sniffles, sounding clogged already, and Phil swings his legs over the side of the bed and reaches for the lantern and flint and steel, holding back the sigh welling in his chest.

“It’s alright,” Phil says, because it is, even though it’s three am on a Tuesday morning and he’s sure Techno’s already up at the slight creak of floorboards as he stands. The lantern lights with a small hiss, and then there’s Ranboo, shoulders hunched and eyes on the floor as he wrings his hands by his torso. He’s clearly upset, tilting his head in such a way that any tears that fall end up spattering on the floor instead of on his face. He looks pale-- or as pale as he can get with his split skin tones.

“I don’t know how to clean it up or--” He starts again, sniffling. 

“It’s alright, mate,” Phil says gently again. “We can deal with it in the morning. Are you going to be sick again?”

Ranboo shakes his head briefly. “I ‘unno,” he says, and Phil makes his way over to the doorway and gently steers Ranboo back into the hallway, down the stairs. It’s dark, so early in the morning, but that doesn’t stop Phil from poking the coals in the fireplace back to life and sitting Ranboo down on the makeshift straw pallet in the corner of the main room.

“I’m sorry,” Ranboo whispers a moment later, as Phil tosses a log on and makes sure it catches. “I didn’t mean to-- to intrude--”

“Ranboo,” Phil says sternly, turning to look at him. Ranboo immediately looks like he’s going to be sick again, so Phil consciously softens his gaze and moves over, tugging a bucket from the corner and gently placing it by Ranboo’s feet. “It’s seriously alright. I raised three boys before. This is not the first time someone has come to me sick.” Memories pop up of fevers, of colds, germs that passed through the whole family and left all of them sick at once. Terrible days, but some of the fondest memories. 

“R-really?” Ranboo asks, and Phil shifts to find a scrap of banner fabric leftover from making shield decorations, and hands it over to him to wipe his nose. He resists the urge to do it for him. Ranboo’s not five-- he can wipe his own snot and tears.

“Definitely,” Phil says quietly. He puts a hand on Ranboo’s back, cursing the fact that the kid is so tall, but reaches anyways to gently rub. 

“I still f-feel bad,” Ranboo admits. “For wakin’ you up.” 

“I’m honored you did,” Phil tells him, still rubbing. Ranboo’s only wearing a jacket over his pajamas, and snow-caked boots sit by the door, the ice unmelted on their soles. It was clearly a panicked, half-thought, feverish decision to come here. Phil has to stand up in order to get his hand on Ranboo’s forehead, feeling gently. Hybrids are anomalies, however, and he’s unsure if the heat under his fingertips is normal or sickness. Techno always ran hot. Phil did too. “It means you trust me,” Phil says gently as he takes his hand away. “And there is no higher praise.” 

“O-oh.” Ranboo seems to take that in for a minute, sitting on the edge of the mattress, and then his face scrunches up. “I’m gonna--”

“In the bucket,” Phil says, kicking it from the side to in between Ranboo’s feet, and then moves to gently rub his back again as he leans over and heaves.

“S-sorry,” Ranboo says through gasps, “sorry, sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Phil assures him. “You just lie right down and relax, okay? I’ll be here. So will the bucket.” 

“Promise?” Ranboo asks, tipping his head up from where he’d hung it over the rim of the bucket, staring at him with such an expression that Phil can’t help but choke up.

“Yeah,” he says gently. He hasn’t made many promises lately. Too many of them get broken. This one, however-- maybe he can make this one right. Maybe he can do it right, this time. “I promise.” 


	23. child soldiers turn into unstable men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> techno uncovers a room, and tommy panics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based off that one stream with tommy and techno! poor kid obv has ptsd,,,,, but at least the final control room's gone now pog? hah....haha....
> 
> also! please don't touch people who are having panic attacks unless it's been established you can before. it can be triggering-- techno is just unaware of that and tommy is coming off of it so he handles it alright.

Techno glances behind him as they make their way down the dark hall.

It had been a fairly successful day, he thinks. He and Tommy had gotten to bond a little bit, sneaking around L’Manberg. Techno had made himself familiar with the landscape of the area, as things often changed on this damn server, and he’d gotten to know where people lived and such. Plus, they’d made it out alive. Considering they were both technically exiled from L’Manberg, things were going fantastic. Now the only thing really weighing on his mind is the fact that Tommy is technically also banned from the general SMP lands-- from now on, it was a matter of keeping them both alive. Not just him.

Neither of them were alone anymore, and it was a hard thing to get used to. Even if the person you were sharing a space with was technically your brother.

“This is where I escaped with Carl,” he explains, the ceiling of this tunnel carved out just high enough for a horse and himself. Tommy laughs, and Techno is sure he’s picturing it. “On a lead.”

“I’ve never been through here,” Tommy says, which makes sense, because it’s a relatively new tunnel. “Where does it end?” 

There’s light ahead of them, born of blue lanterns. Techno’s boots click onto blackstone and they turn the slight corner, dusty chests around. The only evidence of someone being here before is his own fingerprints on the chests, as well as another set. Probably Dream’s. 

“This sign over here says ‘Final Control Room,’” Techno says, looping around and looking at the sign, placed neatly on the floor. “I think it’s something from before I came on the server, right?” When he looks up, Tommy’s still standing on the precipice of the blackstone.

His eyes are no longer on Techno. They’re not even in the same moment, he thinks, watching as his littlest brother’s eyes flicker around the room with more fear than he’d seen in them for a while. His knuckles are white against the stone wall, face pale, and he looks like he’s going to throw up.

“Tommy?” Techno asks, and dimly he realizes Tommy’s hands are shaking. His whole body is-- it’s shaking hard enough that the armor securely strapped to him and glistening with enchantment is clinking faintly. “Tommy, what happened here?”

There’s a chest with Tommy’s name on it. Techno slowly moves his gaze from his brother to said chest, then back up.

“We’ve got to go,” Tommy says, already whirling around and practically speed walking down the hallway. “We’ve got to go. We’ve got to go. We’ve got-- We’ve got to go.” Techno starts up after him, but the sound of his footsteps apparently makes something in Tommy snap and he starts  _ bolting _ down the hallway, towards the safe light of the sewers. 

“Tommy?” He follows, hopping down out of Carl’s tunnel and leaving that control room behind. It’s clearly something-- clearly something important, and curiosity and worry itches deep in his chest. 

“We’ve got to go,” Tommy says, looking either way down the sewers. “Which way’s right? Which way-- we have to build somewhere else, we can’t-- which way’s right? We’ve got to go.” 

Techno’s not even caught up before Tommy’s bolting again down another part of the sewers. “Why are you so scared of that room?” He calls, watching as Tommy’s shoulders clench and he jumps neatly over a muddy brown puddle of water. Techno follows. “Tommy, there’s nothin’ in there, I--”

“We’ve got to go!” Tommy calls, and he sounds so, so scared. He attempts to jump over another puddle of water, but this time he is less successful. Water and mud seep against his armored pants, and Tommy scrambles to get up. “We’ve got to--” He cuts off, if only because Techno has put a hand on his shoulder.

Techno kneels, catches his brother’s gaze, and stares at him for a moment. His hand is warm and heavy on Tommy’s shoulder, and he’s coming to a realization about something that he hadn’t thought about before.

“Why are you so scared of that room, Tommy?” He asks, and he can see the way Tommy’s pupils are pinpricks in the light of his eyes. He’s still shaking under Techno’s touch.

“No-- Techno-- Tech, that is not a part of my past that I am ready to uncover right now,” he says, mud staining his cheek from the slip just a moment ago. “No, no.” 

“It’s alright, Tommy,” Techno says, backing off, because this is clearly a very touchy subject and Techno thinks he just stood in the very same spot where Tommy had lost his first life. “Hey. It’s alright. It’s not important. No one gets over things in a day--”

“I’m remembering,” Tommy cuts in, raising a hand to his head and then moving to scramble to his feet again. Techno gives him space, hands held in the air, as he watches on. Tommy twitches. “Where’s Dream?” He finally asks.

It’s like someone’s punched Techno in the gut. 

“Where’s Dream, I need-- I need Dream, my friend.” Tommy whirls around, surveying the area around them, oblivious to the hurt rippling through Techno. 

It’s not important, though. Not right now. 

“Dream’s not here,” Techno says carefully. “He exiled you, Tommy.” He’s trying to bring him back down, away from the edge of the canyon he’s dangerously toeing here. He has no idea how to do this. Internally, Techno prays to Phil.  _ How the hell do you manage us. _

“Right,” Tommy says, then laughs and wipes at his face. It just smears the mud around more instead of getting rid of it. “Dream-- he’s not my friend, right sorry. He exiled me. But he-- he also cared for me, right? Yeah.” 

Techno takes a risk, and slaps both of his hands down on Tommy’s shoulders. They stand there, damp and muddy and sweaty in the pits of the sewers. Tommy’s shaking like a leaf in the wind.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy whispers, like he’s just realized how loud they’re being.

“It’s alright,” Techno says, just as quiet. He inhales, then exhales. Long and slow. He catches the moment Tommy realizes what he’s doing, the way his eyes dart down to the rise and fall of his chest. Techno catches the minute where Tommy struggles, internally, and then slowly calms down as the adrenaline works its way out of his system. Eventually, his eyes drift shut for a moment, and Techno slowly pulls him into his chest. 

Neither of them are huggers, really. But Techno thinks this is an exception.

“Never speak of this to anyone,” Tommy says, voice muffled. Techno hums, lifting his hand to hold the back of his head and then give him a gentle noogie.

“I’ll think about it,” he says. “No promises.” They’re quiet for another moment.

“Don’t leave me,” Tommy says, and this time it’s almost entirely inaudible. 

Techno reaches down, fumbles with Tommy’s hand, and links their pinkies in an unspoken promise. 


	24. time traveler's burden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> karl returns. he's struggling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ITS ONLY BEEN LIKE 20 MNS SINCE THIS STREAM LMAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Karl comes back from a place in the near-future.

Trips like that are rare. Trips where he has the possibility to be slammed into the body of someone he knows now, the possibility for him to see people and learn who has died-- or in some cases, see them die.

He saw someone die today.

He wrote it down when he came back. He always does, ink dripping onto his fingers and staining his hoodies as he desperately throws himself at a book and quill, scribbling down every detail he can recall before it fades like a dream. That word haunts him, Dream. He’s seen that smiling face one thousand times over. It feels like maybe, it’ll be the last thing he ever remembers.

Karl’s died a thousand different times, a thousand different ways, and it’s killing him. 

His body aches with phantom pains most days now, although he hides it well. He flinches, he forgets. Quackity compared him to Ranboo the other week (or was it last month?), laughing at the similarities between the two. How forgetful they were, how they always had ink staining their hands and a diary kept hidden in the inside pockets of their jackets. Karl had laughed, clapped Quackity on the shoulder, and told him he was being silly. They weren’t similar at all!

_ (He staunchly shoved down the faint memory of a face, not unlike Ranboo’s, and how after coming back from that time in the future he’d flinched every time he’d seen the hybrid around the SMP.) _

This time is not unlike the others. He returns, portal tearing at his skin, and writes. The secret room in his library is still hidden and it only takes a moment to shove the secret bookcase door shut, so he does. His shoulder aches with the motion. He saw someone die today. A friend. Someone whose face he will see now and will flinch and will pass it off with a laugh and say they’d startled him. He won’t remember who it is until he sees them. Karl’s started pacing without knowing it, hands clasped behind his back, muttering gently to himself. He’s exhausted, but there’s something he’s trying to piece together from the trip today and a trip from some time ago. Details, written in the books. There’s something in between the two events, something big, and he’s missing it every time. He has no idea what it is and it’s killing him.

“Knock knock!” As disruptive as a crossbow shot, someone raps on his door, knuckles against the wood. They’ve already opened it, leaning against the doorframe with an easy grin and hair tied up. “Hey, bud. How’s it hanging?”

“Uh,” Karl says, because he’s staring at a face that he knows but can’t recall anything other than blood dripping from his teeth, a deadly grin, a desperate gasp of air. 

He can’t remember his name.

“Woah, dude. You aight?” The guy strolls forward, face going from easy to concerned. “Karl?”

“I need to sit down,” Karl says lightly, and his knees give out. Thankfully, the guy is there in a flash and catching him, arms wrapped around him easily. For some reason, Karl feels warm when he does it. There’s an undercurrent of affection there, whispering to him and instinctively telling him it’s alright to trust. 

“-ou okay? Karl? Hey, talk to me.” The guy is staring at him, eyebrows creased like they’re familiar with the motion. “Karl. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He’d just watched this man-- no, this teenager now, he’s young still-- die. 

“I’m fine,” he says. “Just lightheaded. Must’ve forgotten to eat breakfast.”

“Karl, man, you gotta be careful. Hold on, I’ll get you a drink.” The guy-- the teenager-- the kid, the warrior, the pet killer, the-- the--

Whoever he is, he gets up to fumble with Karl’s sink and a glass, lying upside down on a towel. In a flash he’s back, pressing a cool damp cup into his fingers and linking their arms together at the elbow. It grounds him. He sits there, and sits gently.

“You look like a mess,” the guy says quietly, and Karl just gulps at his cup until it’s empty. He needed that. The water. He’s starving too. He hadn’t been lying when he’d mentioned missing breakfast-- his whole head is fuzzy, although it’s lifting slightly.

“I’m sorry,” Karl says after a second. “I’m-- I’m sorry. I just. Tell me your name.”

“What?”

“Your name, please. I just need to-- I need to know I’m here.”

“Uh, uh, shit, right.” The guy shifts, and Karl relaxes slightly onto his shoulder. It shifts with his breath, when he talks. “I’m Sapnap.”

Sapnap. Images flash through his mind. Bloody teeth. A fox. A gravestone. An underwater room of grey and red. Bloody teeth. A ring. The ring is the same one around his finger right now, and he twists it.

Sapnap continues: “We’re in your house. Just outside what was L’Manberg. The SMP is beyond that, and your amusement park. I’m real, and I’m right here. See? Tappin’ your leg.” His fingers dance along Karl’s jeans, a rhythmic tapping. A drum beat. 

“You’re here,” Karl repeats. His mind settles a bit more.

“Yeah,” Sapnap says. “I’m one of your fiances. Q’s the other. We’re gonna get married by an Eiffel Tower one day, if we ever rebuild it.”

“Tommy lava-casted our first one,” Karl recalls, and that’s good. His breathing has slowed down considerably. Sapnap is relaxed and warm against his shoulder, and Karl lets his head drop onto his. He fits perfect, right here, and he can remember now. Sapnap, a best friend, a fiance. 

_ (Sapnap, who goes down fighting, who screams out his name when he dies, whose teeth are bloody and eyes are dull--) _

No. Sapnap, who is right here beside him, and who loves him in every way he can. 

“You alright?” He asks an eternity later, when Karl’s eyes have closed and he’s fallen into a steady rhythm of breath in, out, repeat.

“Yeah,” he says gently. “Sorry.”

“We all have bad days,” Sapnap reminds him, shifting gently. “We can chill, if you want. But my knees fuckin’ hurt, man, I’m not eighteen anymore--”

“Right, right,” Karl says, turning his face more into Sapnap’s shoulder and grinning. He bites. Sapnap squawks, then rolls his eyes. “Sorry.”

“You’re not,” Sapnap says, shifting to get up and dragging Karl with him. “Let’s go to the bamboo house and vibe.”

“That is very much epic,” Karl says, and he can see the traces of worry in Sapnap’s eyes, but it’s okay. Questions can come later and he’ll deflect them easily with a smile, but for now he feels tired and annoyed and sad. Jams and cuddles with the homies is what he wants right now, so he takes Sapnap’s hand and squeezes tight and goes. 


	25. piano lessons and promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fundy and tommy are family. (are they?)

Fundy is not supposed to be in here.

It’s okay, though! Dad’s out doing busy war things, and Fundy’s on his own. This isn’t unusual in itself-- Dad usually is out doing war things. Fighting for their independence, he tells Fundy late at night when Fundy comes to him crying from nightmares. Fighting for your freedom, Dad tells him, pressing the hilt of a sword into his palms. 

Fundy doesn’t like sword lessons. The blades are sharp and big and shiny and scare him, with how they swing around and cut things. He’s not good with them either; some of the swords dad makes him try and as tall as he is, and he always feels off-balance.

_ (He sees how Dad and Tommy and Jack and Tubbo come back from fighting with big cuts and bruises and wounds. He helps bandage them up with shaky paws, fighting back tears as Tubbo tells him how brave he is despite the blood coming out of Tubbo’s nose and cut on his cheek.)  _

Yeah, Fundy doesn’t like swords. However, what he does like is music.

He has fuzzy memories of days before the war got so serious, memories of guitar chords and his father’s soft hands, someone’s voice ringing out over his head and making him sway with the tune. He has memories of piano, memories of lullabies and melodies that lulled him to sleep in moments. Music is the opposite of war-- music is kind, and soft, and precious.

There’s a piano in one of the rooms in L’Manberg, a piano covered by a white sheet. Last time he’d snuck in here, Dad had yelled at him so long and so loud that Fundy had started crying and wasn’t able to stop. The apologies and reassurances afterwards didn’t help-- he cried himself to sleep that night. Dad had said he was sorry, said it hurt, said he didn’t like those memories anymore-- but Fundy did. And Fundy wanted to remember.

So Dad is out at war right now, and Fundy is in the piano room, sitting on the bench. The keys are soft under his fingers, sheet thrown back and cover lifted. Every time he presses gently down on one, a note rings out. It echoes around the room. Fundy tips his head back, smiling slightly, and pressing notes at random. It’s not a song-- it’s not even a melody. It’s just notes, ringing and rising into a cacophonous orchestral noise that blocks out the fuzz in his brain.

“Who the hell is making that fucking racket?” Someone shouts from outside, and Fundy’s startled out of his musical reverie. Like a bolt fired from a crossbow, he’s slipping off the piano bench and darting under the instrument itself, hiding under the sheet and wood and keys like maybe it’ll protect and hide him from the trouble he’s surely getting into.

The door opens. Footsteps echo. Fundy holds his breath.

The sheet lifts, and light spills in. A hand, two feet-- Fundy knows it’s the L’Manberg uniform, a larger version of his own. A head appears. A shock of blonde hair, a metal-filled smile.

“Fundy,” someone says, huffing lightly. A hand wraps around his scruff, and then he’s being tugged from his hiding place. He shuts his eyes and whimpers, like maybe it’ll get him out of trouble. “You were making a racket, little guy.”

“Sorry,” he says. Tommy snorts, settling him down on his feet and making sure he’s upright.

Tommy is technically his uncle. Tommy is older than him and taller by far, braver than any battalion of soldiers and as bright and loud as the sun. Fundy adores Tommy-- although he’d never admit it, always hiding behind Dad’s legs instead and staring from afar. Tommy is big and strong and everything Fundy wants to be when he grows up.

“It’s alright,” Tommy says, crossing his arms and glancing over at the piano. “Wilbur wouldn’t be happy with you, though.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, brat.” Brat doesn’t sound mean, coming from Tommy. It’s soft instead-- endearment instead of derogatory. Fundy’s paralyzing fear is disappearing some, as Tommy stares at the piano with an odd look in his eyes. It’s almost wistful. “If you’re going to play, you should at least know how to play right.”

What?

“You’re not going to tell dad?” Fundy asks, a whisper of his normal voice. There is still terror coursing through him, although it’s abating as Tommy just smiles and shrugs.

“Probably not,” he says. “Come here.” Tommy moves towards the bench and sits down. He leaves enough room for Fundy to scramble up beside him, legs swinging above the ground, not long enough to reach the floor while he sits yet. 

“Promise?” Fundy asks, sinking in on himself as he stares at the keys. Tommy’s cheek twists as he chews on it for a second, then lands a hand on Fundy’s shoulder.

“Promise,” he says. Tommy’s shoulders are also hunched as he ghosts the fingers of one hand over the keys, then turns and gives Fundy a critical look. “Now straighten your shoulders,” he says, putting a hand on Fundy’s back and sitting him upright. “Elbows out.”

Fundy is good at following directions. Dad always says he’s a good little soldier, a good little champion. It’s easy to copy Tommy’s movements, fingers hovering over the keys.

“This is C,” Tommy explains, pressing down on a note. It rings out, clear as a bell. “It’s the middle bit, and you’re going to want to put your hands like this around it--”

Fundy is a good listener, and Tommy is a surprisingly patient teacher.

This becomes their secret. Whenever Dad is out at war, leaving both Tommy and Fundy behind, they find their ways to the piano room and sit beside each other, shoulders bumping. Tommy shows Fundy the chords and keys and notes, scratching music onto spare sheets of parchment with a quill for him to learn. Fundy practices at night in his bedroom, fingers tapping over his bedsheets with secret delight. He’s good at the music; surprisingly, so is Tommy. Fundy doesn’t think the piano is Tommy’s, yet he plays it with an elegance only practice can bring forth. Notes turn into melodies, turn into songs in Tommy’s hands, and while he always corrects Fundy’s posture on the bench his own is simply horrible. 

One time, Tommy comes back from war with Dad with a bad leg injury. It lays him up for days. Wilbur’s gone two mornings later, so Fundy creeps his way to the piano room on his own. He plays as loud and as hard as he can-- a strong tune, a war cry, a battalion marching to fight, and he hopes Tommy can hear it from his room. When he goes to visit, Tommy’s eyes are shiny and Fundy crawls up beside him in bed, grinning wide.

“Was that you?” Tommy asks, running his hand over Fundy’s ears. Fundy chirrups, then forces it down-- Dad says chirruping’s for babies, and Fundy is not a baby anymore.

“Yeah!” He says, bouncing slightly. Tommy grins.

“Good on you, man,” he praises, and it feels like hot chocolate, like warm sugar rushing through his veins. He’s  _ proud _ . Tommy’s proud of him. “It was lovely as hell.” 

“I made it up myself,” Fundy says, slumping down on Tommy’s shoulder, still slightly bouncy. “For you. It’s called  _ Tommy’s Song _ .” 

“Tommy’s Song.” Tommy’s eyes are more shiny now, and Fundy closes his eyes because he knows Tommy is very proud and doesn’t like for people to watch him be sad. Tommy is his favorite person, he thinks. The very best uncle. “I loved it, little man. Made all of this better.” 

“Good,” Fundy says, tucking his head on Tommy’s shoulder. It’s a warm summer day, the sun creeping through the window and curtains and shining bright on his fur. His eyes are already shut, and Tommy’s chest moves beside him, a hand on his ears as they both breathe. That song took a lot out of him-- banging on the keyboard, making the song Tommy’s and not anyone else’s. He had to match who he was, and he thinks he did. Based on the occasional sniffle above him, Fundy thinks he’s done well. That means he gets to rest, so he does, letting the sun and Tommy’s gentle fingers on his head lull him into a doze. 

\----

_ Tommy’s fingers grip tight into the fur on his head and Fundy is crying and Tommy is shouting and nothing is ever the same. Angry eyes meet terrified ones, and for a second Fundy is thrown back in time and sitting under a piano, scared, so terrified he cannot breathe. And then Tommy is there, smiling, sunlight making his hair like woven gold. _

_ The blue of Tommy’s cape makes his hair almost white. His face is a scowl. Fundy is crying. _

_ After he’s gone, after the shouting is over, he will swear off their family name forever. He will never touch a piano again. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiiiiiiii! i wrote this chapter for some friends on the writer's discord!!!!! hope u guys enjoy hehehehe. 
> 
> if you did, make sure to leave a kudos/comment!


	26. the tailor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an homage to the tailors of the smp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> o/ hello gamers! i saw a post on twitter from one of the skin creators that i follow about how they're technically canon, and went, oh my god that's such a neat idea!!!!!! so this is a bit dedicated to them and all the artists and creators in the background who technically "live" in the smp and make their mark on the story. people mentioned in this story are:
> 
> [@carrot_sprouts](https://twitter.com/carrot_sprouts)  
> [@villainnap](https://twitter.com/villainnap)  
> and [@cuppakyle](https://twitter.com/cuppakyle)
> 
> make sure to go check out their twitters and commissions if they have them!! they're all wonderful creators!

The snip of golden scissors echoes gently in the downstairs workshop of the house. A cozy little thing, tucked into the woods. Not a part of either L’Manberg or the Greater SMP-- maybe one could call it in Badlands territory, but much like the community house and spider spawners, this is a place of mild peace.

Fabric is strung in the yard, lined tree-to-tree. Starched white linens in the sun, blue dyed cotton hanging on one line, flapping gently in the breeze. The lawn is a myriad of colors and light, the sun peeking through and echoing in the spaces the fabric cannot fill. Inside, a jukebox plays a lilting melody and scissors snip, snip, snip.

There is a tailor here. Lost to time and history, she drapes a cloak carefully over a mannequin and imagines it’s recipient-- a broad-shoulder hybrid, who needs enough room to swing a sword or axe or pickaxe. A broad-shoulder anarchist who has shed the red-toned bloody capes in favor of shorter, warmer wear in shades of blue and white. It’s nice to have something so different, although the tailor bemoans that washing the bloodstains out of the red was far easier than the blue when it comes to repairs.

However, you’re really not about to say no to a Blood God, so. 

Someone’s commissioned a fancy piece. Something about a storytelling ball, something elegant and wearable for the resurrected former president of a former nation.

(That day, the sky had darkened with smoke and the tailor had stayed inside. Resounding booms and echoes of gunpowder had replayed over and over in her head for the days following-- or maybe they were real, the echoes of destruction beyond anything this world had seen.)

There’s the sound of hooves outside, pulling the tailor away from the mannequin and glancing outside. It’s the colorful one-- the tailor adores this customer, with his loud laugh and brown hair and mysterious books he carries around with him. He often comes with ink stained on his clothes and asks about how to remove it; sometimes he forgets her name, and that’s alright, she doesn’t mind reminding him. He comes and he asks for a fancy outfit, a swimsuit, and once, he comes to her asking for a new sweatshirt.

(His was faded grey and ripped at the edges. His eyes were vacant that dusky afternoon, and the tailor did not ask questions. She just patched the sweatshirt pieces together until he was colorful again, and sent him off with more light in his eyes. The swirl will haunt her.) 

He comes to her now on horseback, landing with a thump and eyeing the fancy suited design that she shows him. Her golden scissors lie against her hip, sheathed away. They were a present from a friend that lived closer to the action-- a blacksmith, who had forged many a weapon in their time. There was an engraving of a carrot on the blades, an homage to their name, and they cut fabric beautifully. They  _ also  _ split into two blades when needed, and cut mobs down just as well. (She may be a tailor, but she’s a fighter, too.) They cut the fabric for the piece in front of them-- a dark blue overcoat and matching cape, the white of the shirt clean and crisp under the collar. There’s a wine-red sash around the waist of the mannequin, and the not-so-sly traveler eyes it with interest before plopping a couple emeralds in hand.

“This’ll be great!” He chirps, running his fingers over the velvet. “It’s perfect for a party.” 

“Are you going to a party?” The tailor asks, slightly amused. The traveler (who is not as good at hiding things as he may think) nods enthusiastically. “Well, have fun.”

“I will!” He says with a charming grin, and then before the tailor can so much as get another word in, he’s gone again. 

The people of this place are fascinating and wild. They come to the blacksmiths, to the tailors, to the librarians and oracles and change the terrain of the world around them and then go again. They live, they die, they come to the shop and ask for a new shirt, ask to buy thread and needles, ask for a warm, cozy jacket for their travels to the north and south. They never linger. 

Once, an Enderman hybrid ducks his head to fit through the door frame. He’s followed by a more familiar face-- the man they call the Angel of Death in some realms. The tailor is shocked and surprised and most of all, ecstatic-- they like working with the pale blues of the Arctic north. The design a jacket with a hood to keep off the rain and snow, and then with a wave the duo is gone. Whispers and gossip float around the towns and roads of alliances forming and falling and a war ending with a dramatic walk to a prison, but the tailor knows better than that. The tailor knows that people choose people in the end. 

There’s gossip among the tradespeople as well. The tailor with her scissors meets a friend out collecting wool, a shiny pair of knitting needles tucked into the pack on her back. 

“Karl come to you too?” asks the friend, and the tailor nods, holding down the sheep more firmly to cut the dirty wool off it’s belly. 

“Said something about a party,” says the tailor. They work in silence for a bit.

“I hope nothing goes wrong,” says the friend, and they’re shoving the collected wool away and raising a hand to say goodbye. The tailor does the same.

Yes, gossip is for everyone. The blacksmith forges a new axe on commission for a hybrid kid with bad memory. The tailor finishes the blue cape and jacket and delivers it on the footstep of a small house in a hillside. The world revolves-- they work in the background. Essential. Beloved. They push forward a tale and take history into their own hands. 

Somewhere in a little house in the woods of the SMP, the tailor hums along to a disc. The scissors snip. 


	27. bigger on the inside (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tubbo is the last of his kind.
> 
> WAIWY?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based of the lovely [em0kii's](https://twitter.com/em0kii/status/1356811307924787202?s=20) Doctor Who AU!!!!!!! starring tubbo as the doctor, and tommy as our (unwilling) companion. i based this scene heavily off of the episode "The Bells of St. John" from the eleventh doctor, because it fit, but if i do any writing for this AU in the future it deffo will be more freestyle.

Tommy taps his fingers along the desk, the phone ring echoing in his ears like church bells. Or maybe tinnitus. One or the other-- neither’s more holy than the opposite. 

“Hello?” The voice that picks up the call is breathless-- Tommy’s left stunned for a second, but then immediately jumps in, because he’s got a paper due at midnight tonight and hell if he can’t get it in because the wifi’s decided to go all wobbly.

“Hiya,” he says. “I can’t find the internet.”

“Sorry?” The help person sputters a bit.

Tommy raises an eyebrow. “The internet. It’s gone. Can’t find it anywhere. Won’t let me connect. You know, it’s really kind of urgent--” 

“It’s 1204.” The voice cuts him off, and Tommy scoffs a bit, glancing over to the time on his computer. 

“...I’ve got half past three. Timezones, innit? Regardless, can you help me out?” He asks, studying one of his nails. It’s got those white spots on it-- maybe he needs to drink more milk. Or maybe it’s from a calcium overload instead? He can’t remember.

“I’m--” The voice sounds flustered, and there’s the shuffle of footsteps and paper, and then it’s speaking up again. “Where did you get this number?”

“Internet, except on my phone. Data, I guess it’s called. That’s still working fine. But none of the issues are being fixed when I try. I swear I’ve done everything,” Tommy says, kicking his socked feet up against the wall and staring blankly at his screen.

“What website?” The voice gets a bit muffled, then comes back. Still out of breath.

Tommy wrinkles his nose. “What-- the internet website, I don’t know. What does it matter? Can you help me?”

“I-- uh--” There’s more ruffling, the sound of the phone switching hands, maybe. “Click on the button, I suppose?”

“It’s asking me for a password,” he says, leaning forward again and checking the screen of his laptop. It’s the one he uses for school-- his PC is across the room, and not available right now as he waits for parts. 

“Well, put it in, then.” 

“One sec.” Tommy leans backwards in his chair, clattering the phone down on the desk for a moment as he tips back so far it nearly falls right over. “Phil!” He shouts. “What’s the internet password!?”

Phil’s voice is muffled through the various doors of the house, but he gets the phrase well enough to remember and slams the feet of his chair back into the ground, picking the phone back up and tucking it in between his ear and shoulder. There’s a flustered voice still on the other line, but he ignores it in favor of plopping his fingers down on the keyboard and humming lightly.

“Got it,” he says. “Who am I,” His fingers tap, hitting the letters accordingly. W-A-I. “Without you. 1, 2--”

“What did you just say?” The voice on the other line rings out suddenly, startling Tommy enough that he jumps, finger slipping. Instead of hitting 3, he hits four instead and the thing tries to connect automatically. The string of curses making the way out of his mouth are colorful as all hell, and he can hear the person on the other end of the line blabbering.

“Oh, hell,” he cuts in, wrinkling his nose. “I put it in wrong, one second, it’s thrown me out again. I’ll click back in.” He goes to find their settings once more, scrolling through the long list of wifi signals nearby, and one catches his eye. It’s a bunch of letters he’s never seen before-- they’re not even Cryllic or some other language by the looks of it. No, Wilbur had stuck it into Tommy’s brain plenty of times for him to know what other languages look like. These are just random symbols. Curious, he clicks on it-- it’s not locked, and in an instant, he’s connected. Huh. Maybe he’ll just wait for Phil to be done with work and then ask him about it. He picks the phone back up, the line ringing slightly. “I’ve figured it out,” he says to whoever’s on the other line. “No thanks to you-- oh, for fuck’s sake.”

There’s a pounding on the door downstairs, and after a moment, Phil’s voice floats upstairs with a yell.

“I’ll get it!” Tommy calls, then into the phone: “Thanks for the help!” With fumbling fingers as he stumbles down the stairs, he hangs up easily and skids to a halt at the end of the hall. The door is frosted glass-- a shape is behind it, easily smaller than Tommy, and for a second before he swings it open he thinks maybe it’s one of the neighborhood kids come to fetch something from their yard or ask Phil for help with their maths homework. It turns out to be none of those things-- it’s a boy (young man really) who looks to be Tommy’s age, maybe a bit younger by the shape of his face. He’s out of breath and dressed in… well, dark, older clothing. A cloak? Is he some sort of renaissance freak like the fairs Wilbur liked to go to in the summer?

“Can I help you?” He asks, holding the door open a bit more cautiously. The boy’s face splits into a grin.

“Thomas Watson?” He asks, taking an enthusiastic step forward. He smells like smoke, or maybe frankincense. 

“Hello,” says Tommy, a bit perturbed.

“Thomas Watson-Soot,” the boy repeats, bouncing on his toes, hands wringing at his abdomen and looking dreadfully excited as a smile crawls across his face. 

“Tommy’s fine,” Tommy says, because that’s what he prefers to go by anyways. The boy’s face splits into the largest grin Tommy thinks he’s ever seen, and it’s infectious by the way Tommy almost wants to smile back at him.

“Tommy!” The boy says, hands still moving and shifting around as he sways on his feet. “Do you remember me?”

Tommy looks this odd specimen of a person up and down once, wracking his brain, then shakes his head. “Nope. Should I? Who are you?”

“The Doctor!” The boy steps forward a pace or two, matching evenly with Tommy’s torso and grinning widely up at him. Tommy fights the urge to slam the door on the weirdo, or push him away roughly. 

“Personal space, man,” he complains, finally giving in and taking a step back. “Doctor? Doctor who?”

“Just the Doctor! Have I lost it, then? My charming young looks? Oh, surely not, what a shame--” The boy tips his head forward, nearly bonking his forehead against Tommy’s chest as he peers in the mirror they keep on the wall just inside the door. Now Tommy pushes him back, hand still on the door shutting it some as the boy bounces and messes with his hair excitedly. “Oh, but I bet the monk’s robes don’t help-- wait! Wait! Say it again!”

“Say what?” Tommy asks, and he is absolutely the most confused he’s ever been. Is this one of Wilbur’s new friends? Maybe someone Techno knows? He’s not sure what the hell is going on, and his brain is running in exhausted circles to try and figure it out. “Doctor who?”

“Ah!” The boy claps his hands-- the Doctor, that is. “Again. Once more.”

Tommy quirks a brow. “Doctor who.”

“Oh, I _love_ hearing that said out loud. I’ve never quite realized how much I really do like it--”

“Yeah, lovely,” Tommy says, and without much preamble, goes to shut the door in his face.

“No no no, wait wait wait!” There’s a hand between the doorframe and the door and before Tommy can try and stop it, fingers are neatly hit and knuckles knocked. “Ow!!!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, man,” Tommy says, throwing the door back open. The doctor beyond it cradles his hand to his chest, and yet despite it, he’s still smiling. “No solicitors. If this is some prank that Wilbur put you up to--”

“Wilbur!” Oh, great. He sounds even more delighted. “Oh, Wilbur’s here too?” 

“Fantastic,” Tommy says. The self-proclaimed Doctor works his way in through the door and down the hall, seemingly at home and still cradling his fingers to his chest as he peers and stares at every little object in the hall. He tiptoes across the worn carpet, brown hair falling into his eyes as he peers into a photo frame with the four of them all from years ago at a school event. “Make yourself at home, I guess.” 

“I shall!” says the Doctor. “Actually, before I do. Have you got an ice pack?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you enjoyed, make sure to check out the art that inspired me and leave a kudos/comment!!! as well as a comment for em0kii!!! 
> 
> check out my other works if you enjoy SBI and happy endings as well!


	28. im a dsmp!philza apologist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> phil copes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone's like "normalize mental illness" until the coping methods is withers okay i see how it is-- /j/j/j/j
> 
> phil's done everything wrong and i love him anyways. here's some pain.

Phil thinks he was once caring.

He can remember a time when he would walk through the woods and look at the trees, appreciate the crunch of snow or leaves or brush under his feet. He can remember a time when his thoughts had been filled with regard for others, when he had laughed with friends and joked around without worry about anything at all. He can remember a time when his bleeding heart had taken home those who looked the most alone and abandoned.

Phil doesn’t think he’s that person anymore. 

He walks through the forest with shoulders hunched and eyes wandering. He does not think for others now except when it is necessary in order to survive. There are exceptions, of course, but his heart has been changed and he doesn’t know if it’s for the better. The woods are no longer full of sun and hope, two hands in his as he strolls down a wide beaten path. Instead, his hands are stained red and covered in bandages.

The red that drips from him is invisible to all eyes but his. It’s a haunting, a ghost of what he’s done, a memory, a hallucination. At night it’s the worst, filling his lungs and making him choke on nothing at all as his heart sings and his eyes ring and his nose clogs with clots of blood and gore. His hands are as red as the sun in the early morning, dripping blood onto the snow and leaving handprints wherever he goes.

One exhausted morning, Phil asks Techno if he can see them too. The handprints, the bloody ones Phil leaves and the blue ones that linger around them as if reminding him about his sins.

Techno just gives him a look and asks if he’s alright.

Phil lies. He’s fine. 

But he’s not. There’s a weight on his shoulders that will never go away, scars against his back and arm and shoulders that will never leave him. He’d made sacrifices. In order of importance, they are as such:

Wilbur, lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood, chest rising and falling around a diamond blade.

Tommy, face wrecked with bruises and tears, ears bleeding from the force of the explosion, betrayal written as clear as day on his face.

His wings, tattered and torn and hung up on the wall, never to be used again.

Phil sits on the porch of Techno’s house and holds his elytra in his lap, ghosting bloody fingers over the fabric and wondering what enchantments could possibly pull the threads back together. This cloak, once as important as his own arms to him, used as instinctually, now broken and useless. He sits on the porch until his lips are blue and he’s no longer shivering, and Techno has to come outside and convince him to come in.

“It seems strange,” Phil tells him, running shaking, stained fingers over the torn and burnt fabric. “That I mourn the loss of these more than I mourn some other decisions.”

Tommy’s face flits through his mind. Techno grimaces. He’s never been good with comforting others or getting emotional, even around Phil. He always hides it behind layers and layers of dramatics and irony, or shuts down completely. Techno and Phil cope in ways that others often don’t understand, and it’s why they work so well together when it comes to these things. Why they are able to forgive each other so quickly. Yet, today, Phil is open.

Techno is too. “I think sometimes it’s easier to focus on what you think you can control,” he says quietly, and Phil thinks about bright blue eyes and an axe, lovingly forged. “And these were your identity for a long time, angel of death.”

“Don’t call me that,” Phil requests, slipping his hands under the cloak and lifting it up, Techno’s hand firm on his shoulder as he helps Phil shuffle inside. He’s stiff with cold, and the fire is lit in the fireplace and the heat immediately starts to thaw him out. Techno brushes the snow from his shoulders, the dusting he’d accumulated on his hair, helps him hang the elytra back on the wall where they’d sat ever since Phil had moved all of his things out to Techno’s cabin and left L’Manberg behind. 

“Sorry,” Techno says, an eternity later, and Phil sighs. The fire crackles. Outside, there’s shuffling from the animals and downstairs, villagers. They’ve created a home here, not unlike the one they once shared in another arctic wasteland, and the snow is comforting in a way. It’s cold. It matches how Phil feels most days. 

“Don’t be,” he says, curling his fingers in and then splaying them out. Most of the stiffness from the chill is gone. Red stains his fingers, so far under his nails he can never dig it out. It drips from his palms, splattering onto the floor and leaving trails of blood drops wherever he walks. If Phil cared enough to turn his head, he’d see them all over the house, anywhere where his handprints remain. “It’s not your fault,” he says.

Techno is silent for a bit, and then swallows, hard. “I think I could’ve saved him,” he says quietly. Emotion is rare. This is an anomaly. Phil tips his head, watches as Techno runs his hand through long, tangled hair. “Wilbur. I was there. If I had only looked past my own bloodlust--”

“No.” Phil’s voice is firm and certain. “You couldn’t have. It was too late.”

“Is that why you killed him?” Techno asks, voice a whisper, and Phil feels his entire soul lock up and go still.

The room is silent. The fire crackles.

“I’m sorry,” Techno whispers a few minutes of silence later, and then he retreats. This is why they don’t do emotion, Phil thinks, staring into the fire and letting the blood drip down his forehead and into his eyes. He shuts them against it, listening to the crackle of flames until the dripping red clogs his ears and leaves him blind and deaf.

The next morning, Techno gets up, and Phil does as well. They move on and don’t talk about it. Techno cracks a joke-- Phil laughs. They do their chores in companionable silence, the awkward air of the night before already dissipated into nothing. Phil doesn’t blame Techno. Techno doesn’t blame Phil. They know the other has their reasons and won’t push it-- Phil certainly won’t.

He thinks about Techno’s haunted voice, the look in his eyes as he says  _ I think I could’ve saved him-- _

Phil shovels sand in the heat of the turtle greenhouse, and doesn’t think about it. He lets the blood on his hands drip and clot the grains, shoveling it away and watching as a turtle egg hatches. The baby is tiny and small and searches for water, scrambling away from Phil’s fingers and flapping it’s little paddles. He picks it up regardless, studying the creature and watching it wiggle furiously until he puts it down again, watches it slip into the water and swim away into the crowd. 

Tommy comes to them, one day. He comes to see Technoblade, really, with apologies on his lips and an axe; an offering of peace, ironic in its creation and used to split chests and bonds both. He hands it over without any words at all, and the two share a look, and then Phil flees because that is a conversation he is surely not privy to, and has no such desire to witness. 

Two hours later, Tommy comes storming out of the house, fists clenched at his side and shouting obscenities behind him. Despite it, there’s a smile on his face and some sort of easy camaraderie to his stride as he steps out into the snow. Phil had been hiding in the village not-too-far away, trading and talking with the villagers there and occasionally, giving piggyback rides to the little ones.

It makes him feel like he’s important to someone again. It’s almost sad.

He finds Tommy on the edge of the village, crunching through the snow, arms wrapped around himself and grinning slightly as he starts the long trek home.

“You’ll be alright?” Phil asks, jumping halfway into a conversation without really beginning it at all. Tommy glances at him as Phil falls into step beside him. “Heading back without a weapon? It’ll get dark before you get back.”

“I have more than one axe,” Tommy scoffs, tucking his fingers against his sides and under his arms to keep them warm. Phil thinks maybe, once, a long time ago, he would’ve taken off his own gloves and handed them to Tommy with insistence he keep them.

For now, he just stays silent. At least on that matter. “Good to hear,” he says, and they’re quiet as they walk.

“Don’t you live with Techno?” Tommy asks curiously. “Why’re you walking with me? It’s the other way.”

“Can’t I just want to walk with you?” Phil asks, slightly amused, glancing over at him. He liked the silence more these days, but Tommy was never quiet-- or at least, never was. There’s a mellow-ness to him now that’s hard to miss. “Tell me about things.”

Tommy scoffs. “Never asked before,” he mutters to himself, and no matter how much Phil knows he’s changed that  _ stings _ . “Buildin’ a hotel. Helping Tubbo with Snowchester. Keepin’ busy.” 

“Making trouble?”

He grins. “Oh, always.” 

“Good. Wouldn’t have raised you any other way,” Phil says, and it’s meant to be a lighthearted joke but clearly Tommy takes it differently. His mouth sets in a firm line. His eyebrows draw together.

“Hardly raised me at all,” he quips, and Phil’s heart goes icy. 

“Tommy, I--”

“Bye, Phil. Nice talkin’. Tell Techno thanks for the extra pots again,” he says, and then Tommy disappears into the horizon and Phil is left behind, bloody footprints staining the snow behind him and hands bleeding through the fabric of his gloves. He takes a breath and all he can smell is the scent of wither and smoke.

The trek back to the cabin is foggy in his brain. All he really remembers from the rest of that night is Techno’s arms around his shoulders, fingers gripping into the soft fabric-- redredred-- of his cloak, screaming until his voice goes hoarse. The blood drips into his eyes and into his mouth and all he can taste is iron and smoke, staring at the fireplace and watching it curl upwards into the air, into the sky, a city torn down to bedrock--

Why him. Why them.

Why Wilbur. 

Phil thinks he was once kind, and caring, and loving. He thinks he might’ve been human once, much like Techno had once been human, much like Dream. He thinks of red strings and listens to Ranboo as he accounts a tale of blackstone and blood, a room dedicated to everything they’d loved. He thinks he might’ve reached out once to children, holding their hands and guiding them through the woods on a light summer evening, watching with a fond smile as they laughed and joked and played. 

The woods are cold. Phil’s hands are bloody. He’s alone, but he walks the path anyways.


	29. slash fic (NOT CLICKBAIT!!!!!!!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> karl meets a dashing stranger (who may not be as stranger as he thinks)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heehee two chapters in one day, blue000jay goes brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
> 
> i wrote this right after tales actually! thought it was cute-- side note. liaria and billiam are absolutely childhood friends who were at one point engaged but now are not. they get drunk together and whine about the rest of society together. i live for them.

Karl’s himself in this timeline, which is… odd.

At least his clothes changed automatically. They’re still a bit old-fashioned for the era he thinks he’s in, but that’s alright. Sir Billiam had accepted him into his home nonetheless, holding a mask up to his face and grinning with slightly sharpened teeth. The wealthy elite always seemed to be a bit odd, and Billiam was no exception. He was nice, however, showing Karl around the rooms of his mansion and explaining to him with an accent about all his shareholdings and connections overseas. They talked about a ball in London, Karl scrounging up his best storytelling abilities to remind Billiam that they had met, that the butler had surely sent out an invite with his name on it.

Thank god for rich people who don’t do any of their work themselves, because Billiam buys it and then other guests start arriving, allowing Karl to sink into the smalltalk like a stone thrown into an ocean. It’s easy to let them speak above him, and for a second he locks eyes with the butler across the room as he lets himself have a moment of quiet. The butler ducks his head after a second, glancing away.

Huh. For a second he’d thought---

No, it must’ve been the mask, gems glittering along the sides of it and reflecting in his eyes to give them that red sheen. Karl’s getting too paranoid, after all. He tunes back into the conversation with Liaria and Billiam-- they’d been talking vividly since she’d arrived, starting with a simple kiss to her gloved hand and then escalating into gesturing conversation about the silk trade in Paris. Karl didn’t care, but he managed to tune back into the conversation at just the right time to catch Liaria’s voice, high-pitched and lovely.

“And well, who’s this?” She gestures behind Karl, towards the door, and he turns.

There’s a man at the door, shirt half unbuttoned in the summer evening heat, a mask covering half his face. His hair is long-- it hangs around his ears and brushes the back of his neck in dark waves. His eyes are…

Whoever he is, he’s a spitting image of Sapnap.

“James!” Billiam strides forwards, arms spread wide in welcome. “Hello, old friend!”

The man-- James, Karl reminds himself sharply, letting himself sink into the time period-- holds a hand out and takes Billiam’s with it, shaking sharply. “Old friend,” he says. “Good to be here. You’re a ways out, now, aren’t you?”

“You know how it is,” Billiam says, winking lightly. “Escaping from the tax collectors.”

“Riiight,” James says, rolling back on his heels and stuffing his hands in his pockets. Karl is distinctly aware of the way his eyes land on him, how they stutter before passing over to Liaria and stepping forward to greet her. “Liaria. How is Paris?”

“Lovely as ever,” Liaria says lightly, smiling gently at him and dipping in a tiny curtesy. “Billiam was kind enough to invite me and my sister to the event, but I’m afraid my sister’s laid up at the moment.”

“Plague?”

“No, just a bit of a summer cold.”

“Of course. Give her my regards.”

“I shall.” Now, James’ eyes turn to him, and Karl feels all the blood in his body turn to slush. He’s ice-cold in the middle of the summer, and he can feel every inch of James’ gaze on him. “Who’s this?”

“Karl,” Billiam juts in, and Karl holds his hand out. James shakes it firmly. His fingers are warm. “New to the scene. What did you say you were into?”

“Church affairs,” Karl says faintly. “But I’m not the religious type myself.”

“Nice to meet you, then, church man.” Karl nods, letting go of James’ hand after a second too long and shoving it away in his pockets. His hoodie is gone-- he fights the urge to try and flip his hood up anyways. After a moment of awkward silence, Billiam cuts in again.

“And how are you, James? How’s the wife?” He asks. James glances over. 

“Divorced.”

“Ah. And the family?”

“Gone.”

Billiam sighs, bringing a hand up to press against his forehead, like this isn’t the first time. “...I never know how to speak with you.”

“Yeah, well, how about telling me where the bar is?” James asks, giving Billiam a little ribbing with his elbow. Billiam rolls his eyes, and gestures with a hand down the carpet and toward the main doors of the ballroom.

“At the end of the room,” he says. “Ring the bell for the butler if he’s not there.”

“Thanks, old pal,” James says with a grin (and it’s so much like Sapnap Karl wants to cry), slapping a hand down on Billiam’s shoulder. There’s a moment when they lock eyes and Karl is frozen again, ice trickling down his spine. But all James does is give him a quizzical look before turning and heading off towards the ballroom.

“Such an odd character,” Liaria mumbles after a moment, lifting her hand to her mouth and surreptitiously watching James go. “Never liked him, much.” 

“I’ve found him entertaining, if not a quiet drunk,” Billiam says. “We used to play poker before all that mess, you know.”

“Oh, really?” Karl allows himself to fall away from the conversation again, staring quietly at the doors and letting the chatter from the guests around him fade his brain into white noise. James. Maybe an ancestor of Sapnap’s? But he wasn’t even that far back-- how did Sapnap, born of fire, come from a person who was most definitely so upper class? Karl’s perplexed. Maybe it’s a case of the dopplegangers or something else--

“Karl!” Billiam’s staring at him when he snaps himself out of it, looking mildly annoyed. “Are you listening?”

“Of course!” He chirps, forcing a smile on his face and glancing between Liaria and Billiam. “Yeah. I agree.”

“Good,” says Billiam, turning on his heel and offering Liaria an arm. She takes it gracefully. “Let’s go get some drinks, then.”

Karl follows behind, mind whirling.

It’s a few drinks later when he runs into James again. The party’s big, but not big enough for him to be able to avoid it, and it’s no help that Liaria entices Karl onto the dance floor and teaches him to waltz, patient and clever. After a few songs, Billiam cuts in, and the two waltz away in a whirl of glamour and perfection.

Karl’s left in the dust, but only for a moment as an arm slips through the loop of his elbow and forearm and a hand settles on the small of his back. It’s so instinctual and normal that Karl relaxes into the hold easily-- the drinks he’s had so far probably don’t help his scrambled mind at all either.

“Woah, buddy,” says a voice by his ear, and Karl jumps, snapping out of it. Beside him is Sa-- James, a bottle in hand and face slightly flushed as he stares out across the dancefloor. “Gettin’ cozy?”

“Are you drunk?” Karl asks lightly, and James tips the bottle in his hand. A bit of red wine spills out from the opening, dripping the slightest way down his chin, and Karl ignores how that makes him feel and turns his gaze to the ballroom carpet instead. It’s the same color as the wine. So are the curtains. Fuck.

“A bit,” James says, holding the bottle out. “Makes shit like this easier.” 

“What shit?” Karl asks, taking the bottle and lifting it to his lips. It’s bitter, but he doesn’t mind it. “Socializing?”

“The high-class society shit,” James says, nodding towards the dancers. “Like that. I can’t dance.”

“Neither could I,” Karl admits. “Liaria taught me a bit.”

“Right,” James says, and now he’s looking at Karl, eyes a warm, intense brown. There’s fire behind them, but it’s… muted. Maybe from the drinks. Maybe from something else. “Church boy.”

“Praise prime,” Karl says lightly, and then takes another swig of the bottle in his hand and passes it back. James  _ laughs _ , a large, delighted sound, and Karl feels his cheeks going a little red. James’ hand is warm against his back, his arm burning against Karl’s. He’d rolled his sleeves up at some point. 

“I like you,” James says, and then there’s a clink as he leans away for a second and plops the bottle down in a notch in the wall. Then Karl’s being tugged, the world spinning slightly around him as they go. “Teach me what Liaria taught you.”

“What?” Karl asks, hands settling onto James’ shoulders and staring at him with confusion. 

“The dance,” James repeats, jutting his chin out slightly. “Teach me.” 

“It’s a waltz,” Karl says, thinking back to Liaria’s instruction. “One two three.”

“One two three,” James repeats, and when Karl glances up after showing him the first steps and moving their feet, James is…

James is staring between them with a concentrated look, tongue poking out just slightly in determination. His cheeks are red and flushed, hair a bit mussed, and if Karl plopped a bandanna across his forehead and braided his hair into space buns, it’d be  _ Sapnap _ . 

“I think I’ve got it,” James says a second later, glancing up and catching Karl’s gaze. His cheeks feel hot, but then he’s hardly got time to process the look James is giving him before they’re being whirled in circles upon circles.

“What are you doing!” Karl says, trying to stifle his laughter and failing. 

“Dancing!” James replies with a laugh of equal caliber, and they spin, and spin and spin.

“La la la,” Karl half-whispers as they stumble back to the side of the carpeted dance floor and towards the bottle of wine. They’re half-hanging off each other, sweaty from the repeated “waltzes” they’d danced and the way they’d spun and sang around the room. Karl hasn’t had this much fun in a flashback since… well, ever. 

“La la la,” James says back to him, and Karl giggles wildly as James reaches out with a hand and snags the bottle of wine. They’re both delighted, passing it back and forth until Karl’s mouth tastes only of grapes and spruce. James is watching him the whole time, eyes flicking around his face as he drinks, openly staring. Karl openly stares back.

“Have we met before, Karl?” James asks after a second, and Karl’s mind spins like they had been just a moment earlier. He grips James’ suspenders, leaning into the clutch, and lets the alcohol override him for a moment.

“I ‘unno,” he says, fingers tight on James’ bicep and crumpling the fabric there. It feels expensive. James’ hand is warm against the small of his back again. “Have we?”

“I feel like I know you,” James mutters gently, and he’s dipping his head-- only a few inches taller than Karl, lips red with wine and--

“Gentleman!” Billiam’s hands slap down on both their shoulders, making them both jump, and suddenly Karl’s head is clear of fog as embarrassment and realization set in. He’s-- this isn’t Sapnap, no matter how much he wants it to be, and he’d just--

With horror, Karl whips his hands away, even going as far to take a full step back from James. The other man’s face falls. Billiam is unphased.

“Come play some games with the group, gents,” he says, giving Karl’s shoulder a squeeze and a tight smile on his face. “Party games.”

“Darts?” James asks, and his voice sounds tight. 

“In the game room,” Billiam says, and then James is shuffling away, lurching a bit as he goes. Karl watches, and there’s a terrible, horrible tightness in his chest that doesn’t seem to want to go away no matter how much he breathes. Billiam’s hand is warm and tight on his shoulder.

“Chin up, church boy,” he says lightly, turning Karl away from the side of the room and the wine-red curtains. “Back to reality.”

\----

Reality is terrible.

The night had gone horrible.

And now Karl’s here, bent over the still-warm body of the man who looks just like his fiance. The ring around his neck burns-- hidden beneath clothing for safety, the chain reinforced. Sapnap’s-- no,  _ James’  _ face stares at him, eyes open, empty. The back of his head is bloody from the bottle beside him, the same one they’d shared earlier in the night. Behind him, Billiam and Oliver are arguing, the butler standing in the corner and looking.. distressed.

Karl reaches out and shuts James’ eyes gently.

“We have to figure this out,” he says, crawling to his feet and ignoring how the tiny shards of glass sting and make his palms bleed. “Oliver, I  _ saw  _ you here.” 

Saw him, standing over the prone body of James, who looks so much like Sapnap with blood haloed around his head and stuck under his nose, his teeth. Fierce. A warrior, tamed by the drink and despair. 

“I didn’t do it!” Oliver cries, and Karl’s hands curl into fists. 

He will figure tonight’s mystery out if it kills him. 


	30. hey mom (dead mom)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fundy talks to his mom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrote this for my beloved, mads!!! love u!!!! 
> 
> i can't write fundy without giving him his lydia deetz phase. hehehehehe <3

Fundy is four years old and he barely reaches his father’s knee, the first time he talks to his mom.

“Say hello,” Wilbur says gently, holding Fundy in his arms as they stand on the sandy edge of an ocean that spans the whole horizon, that’s too big for Fundy to truly grasp the concept of. He’s been here before, toddling around with Tubbo on the docks and listening to Tommy shout and play in the water, too little to swim against the waves. War was too prominent in their lives for much fun, but that day had been a rare anomaly. He is four years old, his father still loves him, and Fundy stares with eyes as dark as the water in the ocean ahead of them both.

“Hi,” Fundy whispers, raising a hand to his face and squinting against the sun. The sun is very bright, floating just above the waterline, making his eyes water. Wilbur laughs gently, adjusting his grip on Fundy and making his bounce. “Who I say hi to?”

“Momma,” Wilbur tells him, reaching out and tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “Momma’s out there.”

“Why?” Fundy asks, because he’s four years old and everything is a question of why when you’re four. And this is important-- it’s his momma out there.

“She had things to do,” Wilbur says, voice the softest Fundy thinks he’s ever heard (save for when Wilbur’s talking Tommy out of a nightmare). “Important things.”

That doesn’t sit right with Fundy. His eyes fill with tears that don’t come from the shining brightness of the sun, bouncing off the water in the ocean and making them hot. No, these come from somewhere deep inside him. “Us?” He asks, and Wilbur sighs, chest heaving as he does so. 

“She loves us,” he says, but Fundy isn’t really convinced. His lower lip wobbles. “Oh, buddy-- hey. Hey. Listen. She misses us. She just had to go for a little.” Wilbur smiles, face watery and blurry in Fundy’s vision, but his smile always makes Fundy want to smile, so he does. A tear drips down his face, gets caught in his fur. “Why don’t you tell the ocean how much you miss her? I bet it’ll pass on the message.”

Wilbur leans down, setting Fundy on the sand and waiting for him to get his balance before letting go. Fundy feels Wilbur following as he steps forward, feet unsteady in the shifting sand, and finally reaches a spot where the waves lap to the shore and kiss his toes. He giggles wetly, staggering backwards and right into Wilbur’s waiting arms. 

“Go ahead,” Wilbur encourages him. “Tell the ocean.”

“Hi,” Fundy says, Wilbur’s hands warm on his shoulders as he shuffles forward again and lets the water bubble up to his feet. “Tell momma hi. Miss you, momma.” 

“Yeah we do,” Wilbur says. Fundy giggles again as the water splashes up to both their feet, soaking the cuffs of his pants, but it doesn’t matter. Behind him, Wilbur is laughing too, his own feet wet and the sand shifting and moving underneath them as the water pulls it back out to sea. It’s a hypnotizing feeling, and Fundy shifts his toes in the sand for a moment before continuing.

“Love you, momma,” he calls out to the water. Behind him, Wilbur makes a noise, but Fundy pays no attention. He’s four, and the ocean is his mother. “Bye bye.”

“‘Til next time,” Wilbur says behind him, choked, and then strong arms are around Fundy’s middle and he squeaks in delighted surprise as Wilbur picks him up, holds him tight, laughing the whole time-- albeit wetly. “I think that’s enough ocean for today.”

“Bye bye!” Fundy shrieks again as Wilbur tosses him over his shoulder, holding a hand out. “Bye bye momma, bye bye!” 

“Bye bye,” Wilbur echoes, making his way up towards the top of the beach. Fundy laughs as his shoulder bounces, keeping his eyes on the horizon and sun. His momma will come back one day, he knows it, and then they’ll be a perfect family.

\----

Fundy is twenty-four, and he sits at the edge of the ocean and breathes.

The salt air tickles his lungs. His feet, bare, dig into the sand and hide under it like turtles. He wiggles his toes-- the sand trickles from them, shifting with the earth and making him grimace as it gets between and gets stuck in his fur. The beach is fun, but not when you’ve got patches of fur on your body that’s hell to comb through once it gets sandy.

The water splashes in the distance.

“Hey, mom,” he says quietly. There’s no answer. There never has been an answer, in all the years he’s come here. His fingers are stained black and red now, the fur around his face matted with blood and now sand, and behind him, fire crackles and smoke rises in the air. L’Manberg, three lives gone at last. It was only a matter of time, Fundy thinks, and he says as much out loud to the ocean.

“I miss you,” he says. “Even if I don’t know you.”

Betrayal rises in his chest. He hates how comfortable it is, how much it doesn’t affect him. He’s used to it by now, the sense of complete and utter despair that comes with someone you love turning your back on you. 

“I’m angry,” he says, working out his feelings aloud. No one is here to hear him, after all. It is just him and the ocean, blue waves rising and falling, tides coming and going. “I’m so angry with you. And Wilbur. I’m so, so angry.” 

He’s too tired to really let it show.

“You left,” he says, staring out across the sea and letting the sun blind him, letting the tears currently welling in his eyes drip out and burn the cut skin just under his eye. He hasn’t even patched himself up from the battle yet. “You left and you didn’t take me, you didn’t come and get me, take me away from this hell, this horrible fucking--” Fundy gasps, slamming a fist into the sand, and watching the waves come in, and go out again.

“I miss you,” he says, choked up. His throat is unbearably tight. “I hate you.” 

He’s not sure he’s talking to his mother anymore. He never knew her, after all. 

“And the worst part is,” he says, mind foggy with upset and ears still ringing from TNT-- “is that I can’t forgive him. He’s my dad. I should be able to forgive him. I can’t. I never will. Never.” 

The waves hit the sand, tearing at it, wearing down the beach with each passing motion.

“Never,” he says again. “And it’s all his fault.” 

The sun kisses the horizon. Fundy stumbles to his feet.

“Bye, mom,” he says, picking up his boots, his armor, slinging it over his shoulder. 

He heads inland. 


	31. birb boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tommy gets wings. phil reminds him to take care of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written bc of the origins smp! i know thats not the name, but no one can come to a consensus so heck off. 
> 
> i love bird shit, especially phil's wings, so here's a little thing i wrote for them :)

There’s a  _ thump  _ of feet hitting dirt, and Phil doesn’t shift, not even to turn around.

“Hiya, mate,” he says, because he can hear the ruffle of feathers before Tommy’s even come too close, the click of his feet and how he’d hardly made a sound upon hitting this ground. This world is epic-- a server, crafted by Tommy’s own hand, and they’re all still getting used to their new bodies. Phil is used to his own. He’d been able to get a handle on his new powers, similar to how Ranboo had been able to, but everyone else has been struggling with different amounts of success.

Tubbo, with his extra armor and pockets. Niki, with her tail form and feet form, getting used to breathing underwater. Wilbur, who had taken to his ghost form with absolute glee. A few others, popping into the world and shuffling around on unsteady bodies.

And then Tommy, who had spawned in with wings, similar to Phil’s own but lighter and smaller. He’d come up to him and tugged on his sleeve, eyes shining--  _ “I’ll be like you!” _ he’d said, and immediately tried to take off.

Yeah, that had been interesting. Especially when they’d realized Tommy was fused with a chicken, not an elytron. 

“I could’ve pushed you off the edge just then,” Tommy says with a huff, plopping down next to Phil, feet dangling over the edge. They’re in a taiga, acacia trees as far as the eyes could see and huge cliffs. Perfect for learning how to fly, or in Tommy’s case, glide. “You would’ve died.”

“I don’t think I would’ve,” Phil says, laughing lightly and glancing over at the younger kid. The sun is setting, which makes sense as Tommy has trouble sleeping closer to the ground now. “I have wings, dumbass.” 

“So do I,” Tommy grumbles, and Phil heaves a sigh that’s tinged with laughter. He’d been the brunt of many jokes today, the spawn being filled with people learning and subsequently laughing at Tommy’s misfortune until they’d gone off in their own directions to build and start new life. Tommy had hopped around Phil for a bit before heading off to get Jack from the Nether-- it’s been a few days since then and Tommy’s finally back, Phil looking over the small array of spawn houses that have taken shape. 

“Have you been adjusting?” Phil asks after a few moments of silence. Tommy comes to him like this sometimes-- subdued, quiet, just content to relax in his presence and share space together. Phil doesn’t mind it one bit. Tommy’s been doing it since he was a child, after all, hiding in Phil’s feathers whenever he could. 

He does it now, slumping against Phil’s back and absently bumping his head against his shoulder.

“Good,” he says. “It’s not all bad. Wilbur’s been makin’ fun of me for it, but getting around it way easy. The Nether was fun.” 

Phil shifts, twisting his spine and feathers ruffling. Tommy squawks, falling forward a bit in a mess of pale feathers and scowling teen. 

“I’m glad you’re having fun,” he teases, reaching out to ruffle his hair. Then pauses as he gets a good look at Tommy, squinting slightly, tipping his head. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Tommy straightens himself, scowling at Phil outright now as he shoves his hand away. “‘Course,” he says, but Phil’s not convinced. Tommy’s wings are filthy with soot and ash, most likely from the Nether. There are things stuck all over them, barbed, and when Phil reaches out to pluck one away Tommy winces and shuffles to the side.

“You sure?” Phil asks. “You look like a mess.” 

“I’m fine,” Tommy insists, once again batting at his hand. “Leave it alone, I get it, they’re not like yours.” 

“They’re still feathers, Tommy,” Phil reminds him. “Still wings. Come here. Have you been preening them at all? Have you asked Tubbo to do it for you?”

“Preening?” Tommy asks, frown deepening. “Why would I need to preen?” 

“They’re wings, Tommy, don’t be daft. Come on.” 

“I’ve worn elytra before! I know how to take care of--”

“Yeah, for MCC and minigames! Not long term, come on. Turn around.”

“You’re the worst.” Despite his acrid tone and scowl, Tommy turns. Phil rolls his eyes and surveys the scene-- feathers askew, barbs and various bits of grass and dirt all over them. The ash clings to the feathers, and Phil doesn’t hesitate to get to work. His fingers are practiced as he pulls the biggest obstacles out of his wings first, tossing it all to the side, then slowly works from inwards out, straightening and plucking feathers when he has to. He holds one out for Tommy, who takes it gently and holds it. Phil can just see over his shoulder as he slumps, and Tommy turns it over in his fingers again and again.

“I like them,” he finally admits. “The wings.”

“I know you do,” Phil says. 

“I wanted to fly like you,” Tommy continues. “Make a house up here and dance around like birds.” 

“We should,” Phil says. “It’ll be nice.” 

Tommy turns his head, face outlined by the setting sun in shades of gold and pink. “You’ll live with me?” he asks, sounding strangely hopeful.

“Of course,” Phil says. “I think I’m going to be a bit of a nomad, but I don’t see why a home base here wouldn’t be nice.” 

Beneath his fingers, Tommy’s wings twitch. He digs his hand in deep, by the connection to Tommy’s shoulder blades and watches as Tommy’s head tips back, as he lets out a sigh.

“That feels warm,” he says. “Is that what you feel?” 

“I’ve been asking Ranboo to do it, and sometimes Wil,” Phil says. “You can do the outside bits by yourself, but the back is hard to reach. Does it feel better?”

Tommy rolls his shoulders, extends one of the wings. It’s maybe a third the size of Phil’s, but it’s pretty in it’s own way, downy feathers shuddering as Tommy works the muscles. “Mhm,” he says, holding the feather up. “We could make and sell pillows out of these.” 

“It’s always capitalism with you,” Phil says, whapping his shoulder lightly and then moving onto the next wing. “We could, though. Not a bad idea.”

Tommy laughs, bright and loud, the sound that’s been echoing over the hills and lakes of this new world for the past few days. Phil smiles. 

“Can I help you?” Tommy asks a second later, and Phil raises a brow. Tommy clarifies without him having to ask. “What was it? Preen yours?”

“Awww, mate,” Phil cooes, flexing his own elytra out behind him, letting them feel the breeze. He loves them, in his own unique way, and he’s so glad he has them after the recent break without. Flying is freeing. “Course you can.”

“Cool,” Tommy says, and then Phil reaches over, dumps a handful of feathers into his lap. He squawks again, pulling away, and Phil snorts lightly as he does so. “Hey!”

“You’ve got ash,” he says, reaching out to point to the darkened feathers. “All over the place. When you come back from the Nether, find a good beach with some sand and roll around in it. By yourself, if you don’t want to get made fun of.”

“I have to take sand baths.” Tommy is entirely deadpan. Phil nods, a smile creeping over his face. 

“You have to take sand baths, yes,” he says. Tommy turns his head, and there’s a smile on his face despite this news, mischievous and bright.

“...do you take sand baths?” He asks. Phil heaves a sigh, letting his wings fall down to the ground and spread out, limp. Hey, at least they’re clean.

“...yes,” he admits. 

“HAH!” Tommy’s face is immediately lit up, and he howls with laughter, rolling back and flopping into the grass. Phil winces-- he’d just cleaned those fucking feathers, goddammit-- but he can’t help but laugh as Tommy squawks with delight and rolls. 

Right off the edge of the cliff.

“Tommy!” Panic, coursing through him like a shock cannon-- quickly abated by the realization that yes, Tommy can glide now. And glide he does, laughs echoing across the grasslands as the sun disappears and Phil can only smile, fingers warm and heart full. 


	32. l'appel du vide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tommy doesn't want to think about it. chat makes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for suicidal ideation and intrusive thoughts!
> 
> tommy's stream reminded me of the french term "l'appel du vide" or call of the void :)

His feet hit the snow with a crunch, toes gripping inside his sneakers, ratty material barely keeping out the chill. He’d shed his construction gear after tearing down the scaffolding-- he didn’t need it after all, since the hotel is finished. It’s finished! A huge red and black structure of concrete and glass, a mark of him on the land. It’s permanent. It’s his. Sam Nook (logically, Sam) had finished the hotel and now it’s his for him to decorate and roam and stand in and run his hands over the stone brick and perhaps start a drug empire in the basement. It’s his. 

And, there’s even a room for him. A suite. A place for him to stay. It’s not his hobbit hole, no, but it’s certainly nice. Tommy’s chest swells whenever he thinks about it. In fact, his chest has been in a permanent state of swelling ever since he’d laid eyes on the hotel. He might have an infection. Or maybe it’s just the cold.

His axe hits wood and his mind roars. Occasionally, he quips to the voices-- answers, responses to their concerns about the egg. He’s too busy riding the high of the hotel and trident ride over to chop down trees. His breath chills the minute it leaves his mouth, a dragon’s fire cloud as he chops down tree after tree, stacking the wood in his inventory until he thinks he’s done the math right and has enough for the chest in the hotel. Not only does he have a finished hotel, but he’s got an employee-- and a chance to make upgrades. 

Tommy is  _ so  _ fucking excited.

Life is wonderful. Life is so wonderful that he’s whooping as he flies back to the hotel, trident glowing with enchantments as he throws himself recklessly into the water and comes out soaking and thrilled. It warms as they get closer to the Greater SMP, and his hotel looms into view. Just as tall as Punz’s tower, as Eret’s towers. It’s grand and beautiful and his. It stretches into the sky and he cups a hand over his face as he tips his head back, still breathless, still soaked, and tosses his trident up and then catches it again.

“Pretty fuckin’ cool, chat,” he says, the nickname for the voices making them surge a little. He’s never had them as bad as Techno and Phil, but they’ve been strangely more persistent. And he’s started calling them chat, too-- one of the nicknames he carries over from his stint in the tundra. 

His eyes catch on the roof’s overhang, and then an idea pops into his head.

Some of the voices seem to catch onto it before the rest. They whisper into his ears as he throws the wood into the chest, slams the lid shut and puts the trident in his hotbar. The wood of the ladder bites into his fingers and the whole of the hotel breathes around him, fresh life. Skin unscarred by war, unlike his own. Speaking of, he rolls his wrist as he reaches the top floor, the bones cracking slightly from a previous break or death. He’s never sure which scars come from which events. He doesn’t bother to remember.

The ceiling on the top floor is stone, and it hardly takes a second for Tommy to whip out some wood and then swing through it, breaking onto the roof and stowing away the cobble. The new ladder he’s crafted sits comfortably against the wall and he clambers up, swinging himself onto the top of the hotel and letting out a breath as he does.

It’s flat. No railings, no barriers. Just the smooth stone bricks and wind and him.

He stands up. Shifts to the side, away from the hole that leads back down into the hotel, and stares out. Across from him rises the great black mass of obsidian and blackstone that is the prison. Inside he knows is Dream.

He hasn’t been back to visit Dream yet. Tommy’s not sure how that makes him feel.

“Bastard’s still in there,” he says to no one in particular. Maybe chat. They reply in a surge of emotion more than anything, a familiar tide of anger and hatred that he easily directs toward the man currently locked up. “Yeah, he deserves it.” 

Some little part of him twinges. Does he?

...Yes. He does. That fact is immutable. Dream is a  _ bad person _ and Tommy knows that. Dream is bad like Wilbur was bad, like Techno is bad--

Well. 

He stares out at the prison with a hard gaze, then turns his mind away from it and his body as well. He stalks to the other side of the roof, feet steady on the stone as he stares out across the SMP. He can’t see the hole of L’Manberg from here, which he’s thankful for. He can see Targay, the towers, his hobbit hole. A few other landmarks that he notes in his mind with ease, and surrounding it and caging it all in are the egg vines. Just looking at them makes his skin crawl, but he looks anyways. It’s like they’ve grown over the past few weeks, to a point where there’s not a spot that isn’t covered. They’re even on Bad’s mansion when he turns around to look, although none are touching the prison. None are on his hotel, either, and his mind flickers to the piece of egg he keeps in his enderchest, a scheme that had been shot down by a fun android who had seemed very menacing at the time.

“Egg’s gotten big?” He asks the air, the wind whistling through his hair and making his whole body shiver. “Is that gonna be a problem?” 

Chat’s resounding answer is yes, and Tommy frankly does not want to think about it, so he doesn’t.

Instead, his eyes wander, gaze flickering down to the green grass below, the blue of the ocean and the sandy beach that lies just underneath the hotel.

_ Jump. _

“Woah,” he says, rearing back, hitting his ear with an open palm. It stings, but it grounds him. “Fuck off.” 

Chat rears its head, thorny teeth sinking into his spine. There’s a spinning feeling in his gut as he stares out at the prison, going quiet as the feeling rushes through him. He could jump. He feels almost compelled to, like something is urging him, for him to throw himself off the side of the hotel and see what happens at the bottom. It’s an urge he’s felt before. It’s not pleasant. 

Distinctly, he remembers a conversation with a friend one day on top of a tree that is now only ashes.

_ “I want to jump,” _ Tubbo says. Tommy stares at him, hand flying out and gripping his sleeve tightly with a rush of terror flooding through him. 

_ “You have a bucket?” _ He asks, ignoring Tubbo’s amused laughter at how Tommy had reacted. He shakes his head.

_ “No,” _ he says, and tips his eyes back over the leaves and down to the ground. Tubbo’s hair falls into his eyes as he does, a strange, odd, floaty look in them. Unfortunately, it will become normal in the next few months, but Past-Tommy is unaware of that. _ “I think it’s just a feeling. It’s called something.”  _

_ “What?” _ Tommy asks, pushing past the surge of adrenaline that comes with your best friend in the whole world saying they want to jump off a tree from which they most certainly will die.

_ “L’appel du vide?” _ Tubbo tries.  _ “It’s French. Wilbur taught me it. It’s the call to the void. It makes you want to jump off shit.”  _

_ “Well, don’t go fucking jumpin’ off shit if you don’t have a bucket,” _ Tommy chides him, once again unaware of how the future will turn out.  _ “We have limited chances of coming back, you know.” _

_ “I know!” _ Tubbo chirps, and that’s the end of that conversation. They have a tree to climb.

L’appel du vide.

Tommy stares over the edge of his freshly built hotel and contemplates. The call of the void. In his head, chat tears itself apart with how loud it’s being-- two sides, maybe three, all of them biting at each other and making his head feel like it’s splitting apart. 

One says  _ jump. _ One says  _ don’t. _ The third side in this trifecta is apathetic.  _ Do it or don’t, _ they say,  _ it doesn’t matter.  _

“It does matter,” Tommy says after a moment, taking a trembling step away from the edge. Since when had he started shaking? It doesn’t matter, because his fingers are vibrating now with energy and nerves, gripping at the hem of his shirt as he stares at the prison and then down, locking his eyes on the stone. He doesn’t want to jump. Whatever he had been feeling just then had been an anomaly-- something to romanticize, something to inevitably ignore. “I matter.”

Tommy works these thoughts around in his brain. He matters. He does. There’s so much to do now that the wars are over and the bad guy is in prison. He has a hotel to run and an employee to scam and drugs to make and Tubbo to adventure with. 

Yeah, Tommy matters. And he’s got a lot to live for. So after one last rueful look out across the landscape of the SMP, he makes his way over to the hole in the roof that will let him down. Trauma’s for another day, he decides, mind already flitting to other activities and tasks. He needs more diamonds.

There’s a small percentage of chat, though, that won’t let him forget it. Constantly, in the back of his head--  _ jump, jump,  _ **_jump._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope u enjoyed!!! leave a kudos/comment if you did!


	33. for the dancing and the dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> phil and kristen. think AE aesthetics :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the only straight people i know. 
> 
> this is technically a songfic! the song is "for the dancing and the dreaming" from the HTTYD2 OST! i highly recommend listening to it while reading this!

[for the dancing and the dreaming](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=roY4p0Pulg0&ab_channel=xAndrzej42)

(start around 18 seconds in, or less if you're a slower reader)

\----

His hands find the tabletop, gently pushing himself to his feet. Drawn to the movement, she snaps her gaze upwards, watching as he moves out of his chair and carefully pushes it in.

Like a bird in the early morning, he begins to whistle. Just something quiet. Something he knows she recognizes, based off of how her eyes widen and then a moment later, a smile graces her lips. Phil can’t help himself-- he smiles as well, the whistle dropping off for a moment as his mouth changes shape. The tune comes to him from ages before, from a time when they lived in the woods instead of in an icy palace. From when they were young.

“What are you doing?” She asks, and Phil meanders his way around the table, folding his arms on top of the chairback she’s sitting in. 

Kristen turns her head, raising a brow lightly as she watches him. He can’t hide his smile as he catches the tune: “I’ll swim and sail on savage seas,  with ne'er a fear of drowning.”

A pause, as he takes a second to remember the lyrics and hopefully the melody. “And…. gladly ride the waves of life, if you will marry me.” There it is. He can see the way she smiles at the song, ducking her head for a moment, then turning again. The chair creaks as she shifts out of it, as his hand finds hers. 

“No scorching sun, nor freezing cold will stop me on my journey…” Phil trails off slightly, taking a step back as she follows, hands clasped together now. They’re both smiling. It’s ridiculous how much her smile makes his heart pound, even after all this time. It’s like he’s seeing her again for the first time, starstruck. Something has cursed him with this lovely, perpetual love. “...if you will promise me your heart, and--”

“...love me for eternity,” Kristen finishes, the tempo picking up ever-so-slightly as she comes in a pitch above him. She’s definitely the better singer out of both of them, fingers squeezing Phil’s briefly as she takes over the song for a moment.

“My dearest one, my darling dear, your mighty words astound me.” Somehow, their forearms press together, feet moving carefully in a circle. Effortlessly, they switch arms, Phil staring at her the whole time. The palace is cold but his heart is warm and this is a dance he knows by heart and intuition. Her words are sweet when she sings, “But I’ve no need of mighty deeds, when I feel your arms around me.” The laugh he lets out is unconscious--

“But I would bring you rings of gold, I'd even sing you poetry!”

“Oh, would you?” She laughs, leaping over the backs of his legs, and he just grins, keeps the melody going in the previously silent room. 

“And I would keep you from all harm, if you would stay beside me!” Drums, inaudible to everyone but them, pounding out the beat that their feet follow. 

“I have no use for rings of gold, I care not for your poetry. I only want your hand to hold--”

Phil cuts her off, laughter cascading between both of them like a grand river. “I only want you near me!”

“To love and kiss, to sweetly hold! For the dancing and the dreaming! Through all life's sorrows and delights, I’ll keep your laugh inside me!” It’s rough without music behind them, but they know it enough by heart that it doesn’t matter. Phil swirls her around so she’s against his chest, side-stepping to the tune and laughing when they both stumble over themselves. He doesn’t hesitate to press his nose to her hair, feel his heartbeat against her back, and then she’s whirling out of his grasp once more. In circles they go, feet pounding over the carpet with a strange sense of delight as the room whirls in circles around them. They’re not the ones moving-- the world is, containing their joy within this one room and shaping it around them. Phil only can watch her, swirling around the table, skirts whooshing as they sidestep a chair and avoid their half eaten dinner.

“I’ll swim and sail on savage seas, with ne'er a fear of drowning!” He calls, watching as Kristen laughs, throwing her head back, dark hair plaited down one shoulder and crystals on her dress catching the light. There’s a happiness in him that he didn’t know he could feel ever before, one that’s only intensified as they swirl around the room, a pair of birds, the song whistling in their heads and sung through their hearts.

“And gladly ride the waves of life, if you will marry me!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed! leave a kudos/comment if you did, and be sure to bookmark/subscribe if you want update emails whenever i post a new chapter of this fic!


	34. marriage is for fools (and we are so stupid)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ranboo and tubbo get married. it's a good move :thumbsup:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS COMPLETELY PLATONIC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ITS NOT ROMANTIC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i cant believe i have to say this but its just best friends. as someone who is also marrying their best friend, please normalize this shit. i thought this joke bit was cute.

They’re sitting on the Prime Path one day, helmets and jackets off, soaking in the midday sun, when Tubbo turns to Ranboo with a strange glint in his eyes.

“Let’s get married,” he says out of nowhere. They’d been sitting in silence previously, and Ranboo blinks open his eyes. The grass is green beyond the path, the wood hard under his legs and pressing against his back, hair splayed out against the sun-soaked material as the rest of him warms. 

“You’re seventeen,” Ranboo says. Tubbo hums, staring at him upside-down in Ranboo’s view. He’s sat up, leaning over his head. 

“And?” He asks. “You’re only a little younger than I am.” 

“Really?” Ranboo asks, lifting a hand to tap his chin. “With how you act sometimes I tend to forget.” 

“Shut up!” Tubbo’s hand comes down on his face and Ranboo laughs, shoving it away before Tubbo can attempt to smother him in any capacity whatsoever. He’s still mildly drunk off the warm spring sun, off the laughter from the adventure earlier, and so after a moment, Ranboo agrees.

“Sure,” he says. “We can get married. Who’s going to officiate?”

He’ll blame the decision later on spontaneity and childish glee. For now, it’s just a jest. 

“I think Puffy can,” Tubbo says, glancing across the Prime Path and at the orange office which was constructed a few weeks ago. She’s not there, but if they wait long enough she’ll show up.

“Rings?” Ranboo asks. Tubbo hums, then disappears out of his view for a moment. Ranboo’s left blinking in the sun, and then a second later, Tubbo reappears. He holds a hand out and Ranboo places his own fingers in Tubbo’s, watching as a RingPop slips onto his finger. “You’re kidding me.”

“Nope!” Tubbo grins, and Ranboo splays his hand, eyes the ring and squints as the sun filters through his fingers. “It’s perfect. Edible, too.”

“You didn’t lick it first, right?” Ranboo checks, shifting his hand to the side and watching Tubbo shake his head. A second RingPop appears in his hand, and Ranboo shifts, sitting up. His shoulders hunch as he does, aching from laying on the hard wood, but neither of them say anything as Ranboo takes the ring from Tubbo, only to slip it back onto his finger in an imitation of what Tubbo had just done to him.

“I now pronounce us husband and husband,” Tubbo says, holding his hand out to admire. “You know, they say you should marry your best friend. I don’t see how this is any different, really. And we hung out on Valentine’s Day. We can be pal-entines. Husbandos.”

“I’m not sure if I want to be your husband, Tubbo,” Ranboo says, holding back a laugh, the weight of the ring heavy on his hand as it drags down his face. “Sometimes being your best friend is high-risk.”

“Are you saying you want a divorce?” Tubbo asks, and Ranboo can only laugh a little bit as his face contorts in mock-upset. “Is being my husband too high-risk???”

“It is!” Ranboo says, giggling yet apologetic. “So high-risk!” 

“I can’t believe we’re getting divorced already,” Tubbo complains, leaning forward to bonk his head affectionately against Ranboo’s shoulder. “Think of the children.”

“What children,” Ranboo deadpans. Tubbo leans against his shoulder, horns stubby but sharp enough to hurt a bit after a moment. 

“Michael,” Tubbo finally says.

“The  _ pigman _ ?”

“Yup. We adopted him.”

Ranboo can’t hold it in now-- he laughs, tipping his head back and leaning on one hand, cackling to himself as Tubbo complains and slaps his shoulder and tugs on his sleeve until Ranboo’s all out of laughter, wiping at his face and grinning lightly as the last few bubbles of joy come from his mouth. 

“Married, divorced, re-married, and proud parents all in five minutes,” Ranboo says, grinning down at Tubbo, who has condemned himself to lying down on the Prime Path, arms splayed out to the side and snickering slightly, eyes shut. “We’re so indecisive.”

“You’re indecisive,” Tubbo shoots back, and Ranboo throws a hand in the air. 

“That doesn’t even make sense,” he argues. Tubbo just laughs harder, rolling onto his side and then gasping in pain as one of his horns thunks against the wood. Ranboo reaches out, hauling him up from the path, snickering with him as the sun shines down on their shoulders.

\----

They get married. Puffy gives them an odd look before filling out the proper forms, pronouncing them officially husband and husband. Ranboo surprises Tubbo with a ring made of practical iron, silver to match the Snowchester outfits and plain enough that it doesn’t get in the way when working on projects. He waits until they’re alone before making a grand show of a proposal, based on a tired confession of wanting a real proposal. 

Tubbo surprises Ranboo a day later, the obsidian somehow fitting perfectly around his finger without Tubbo having to resize it at all. That proposal is much quieter. Ranboo prefers it, and based on how Tubbo grins, he knew he would.

So they get married. 

\----

Ranboo’s standing on the motel build site a few days later, arms crossed, eyeing the yellow concrete with mild disdain. He just can’t decide on a design, chests of items and material scattered about. Tubbo had helped for a little a few days prior before fucking off somewhere else-- Ranboo thinks he’d been investigating the prison? But thinking about that makes him nervous, so he avoids thinking about it.

Someone bumps into him from behind, arms wrapping around his middle. 

“Hello, husband,” Ranboo says, noting the flash of iron on Tubbo’s finger and the way horns press into his back, a head bumping repeatedly into his back. 

“Hiiiii,” Tubbo says, voice muffled. 

“Are you here to help?” Ranboo asks, since he’s been building by himself for the past few days. He turns slightly, catching view of puffy brown hair and a snow-dusted jacket.

“Nooooo,” Tubbo says, clinging tighter to Ranboo’s middle. “I was watching video memes on my communicator and thought I could come watch them here.”

“And make me do all the work?” Ranboo asks, settling into the hold and returning his gaze to the motel. It’s not too terrible looking. Spruce and yellow concrete and alliums, flowers planted by Tubbo’s own hand from the one day he’d helped work on the place. 

“Yaaaaay,” Tubbo says, voice getting more muffled as he presses his face into Ranboo’s back. There’s noises a moment later, communicator dings. The sound of a video. “You’re doing great, honey.” 

“I hate you,” Ranboo says. “You’re not going to be employbee of the month.”

“I’m the owner,” Tubbo rationalizes, more noises coming from behind him. Ranboo shuffles forward, ever-so-careful not to dislodge his best friend turned husband as he opens a chest and rummages through it. “I’m always employbee of the month.”

“Spruce or oak?”

“Spruce.”

“Thank you.” They both fall quiet for a bit as Ranboo adds a few stacks of spruce to his inventory, then shuffles off and starts to build up and up. Tubbo dislodges himself after a bit, sitting on the side of some of the scaffolding quietly and watching videos on his comm. Occasionally, he pipes up.

“We’re going to start a news show.”

“...are we?” 

Banter comes easy. Banter comes natural. Tubbo is Ranboo’s best friend. No matter how exasperated he gets sometimes with him, no matter how many videos Tubbo stops Ranboo in the middle of something to watch, nothing will change that. Nothing they’ve been through will alter this, Ranboo thinks. And he has a physical reminder of it too-- an obsidian ring, sat cleanly on his left ring finger, reminding him every moment of the day that there’s someone out there who loves him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope u enjoyed! leave a kudos/comment if you did! it means a lot!


	35. trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an assassination occurs.

Once, a long time ago, Techno had leaned against a fence and watched a sun set. He’d stared out at the burning ball of gas until his eyes burned, until tears welled up, until when he shut them to wipe the salt away he could still see the imprint of it on the backs of his eyelids. The fence had been cold and dug into his arms uncomfortably, but he hadn’t cared, hadn’t moved. 

Phil had found him there long after the sun had set, draped his second cloak over his shoulders, and stared out into the darkness with him.

Once, Phil had told him,  _ “you know, I think a lot of people mistake trust for communication.”  _

It had been a stupid thing to be upset over, in hindsight. Especially because Phil had been right. Phil was often right about these things; usually, Techno could laugh, he could tease him, call him old and whine about his earthly wisdom that he felt the need to spit out whenever things got difficult. Techno had been upset about Tommy’s latest “betrayal,” choosing Tubbo over him, choosing L’Manberg over him. Everything had hurt so much, after everything Techno had done for Tommy, and yet Phil had been there with a warm hand and a warm laugh, knowing words.

Phil was the one thing that he could depend on. Phil was the one person he could trust unconditionally.

There’s a glass shattered by his feet, and a bloody lump in their shared living space.

“Phil?” Techno asks, voice clawing its way out of his stomach, through his throat, leaving long, bloody gashes in its wake. Speaking is painful. 

“Phil?” He asks again despite the pain, despite the way the voices in his head are roaring with anger and upset. Because there’s no way the lifeless shape on the floor is Phil. He convinces himself of this fact even after he steps forward and sees the shock of blond hair, the warmly familiar hand that’s sticky with red blood. 

There’s a cup of tea shattered on the floor. It splashes as Techno steps through it, through the potion he himself had dropped upon entering the room. The chair in front of the fireplace is knocked over. There’s a book lying on the floor, halfway soaked with tea. Blood smears the floor, pools, and green robes lie crumpled and folded unnaturally, as though Phil had only fallen once and not been able to move next.

Techno sinks to the floor beside him and strangely, feels like he’s twelve again and come to shake Phil awake after a nightmare. Maybe he’ll wake up, if he feels it hard enough. He places a hand on where he thinks Phil’s shoulder is. 

He’s cold.

The tea seeps into his knees, makes him sticky and cold and wet, and his hands are red as he turns Phil’s body over and detaches himself. Techno’s here and he’s not-- he’s watching from above as his hands turn Phil’s body over, as his lungs with smoke and ash, as he struggles to take a breath. The voices roar, but the blood on his hands sates them. It’s almost like they’re shocked as well.

Phil’s eyes are closed. His face is smeared slightly with blood. There are two dark stains in his clothing-- one a few inches above his waist, the other directly in the area of where his heart would be. Techno presses two shaking, bloodied fingers to Phil’s chin, and waits.

And waits, and waits.

His skin is cold. His eyes are shut. Techno watches from above as his hands move away from Phil’s chin and instead to his wounds, fingers pressing flatly against them. He turns, eyes assessing the room, and searches out a story.

Scuffs on the door-- someone pushing through, Phil having been reading by the fireplace. Always prepared yet surprised. There’s a blade stuck against the wall, clearly thrown. It’s Phil’s. Phil, who had fought back but had been ruthlessly cut down, rolling onto his back, pushing past the pain, staring up and then-- There’s a story in the footprints, tracking blood back out the door after finishing their job. Techno wants to follow them, to track down their owner, but all he can do right now is sit by his friend’s side and shake.

Phil, with only one life. No totem in hand, or not enough time to grab it. Whoever had done this had been methodical. Had known Phil was a fighter. Had decided to take the coward’s way out and attack him in his own home, had decided to kill him when he was his most defenseless. Phil had been left to die alone, bleeding out on the floor of his house with no one to comfort him. 

Techno doesn’t bother asking why. 

“You didn’t deserve this,” he breathes out gently, feeling the flame rise in his chest as anger pours through him, hot and angry, familiar. The voices surge back from their shocked silence. Even they hadn’t been able to grasp this moment, but now that he’s back he can hear them and only them. They call for blood-- they need him to spill it, they need him to avenge this. Techno doesn’t think there’s any other choice for him. 

He moves to stand. 

“Be quiet,” he tells the voices. He staggers to the chests, throwing open a random one and thankfully finding what he needs. Wood, and lots of it. A flint. A steel. Strangely, some of them abate. Like they’re grieving too.

“I need to take care of him,” he tells the voices, fingers shaking as he piles wood in the front yard. The voices roar as he picks Phil’s body up, as he adjusts the clothing, hides the stab wounds, and wipe his cold pale face clean of blood. He finds Phil’s bucket hat-- the beloved one Techno had jokingly bought him so many years ago, in the middle of their empire exploits. They’d joked about how it matched Phil’s signature green and white, and Phil had staunchly worn it for the rest of time. He hadn’t ever taken it off. Techno had been sixteen, then. 

He’s twenty-one now, and strong enough to carry Phil’s body out to the makeshift pyre. The flint and steel takes a dozen tries to light. 

The tundra is cold and the ground is frozen. He would’ve spent so much time trying to dig a grave, and he doesn’t particularly want to. Philza Minecraft-Watson was not a man who was bound to the soil-- no, he belonged to the sky. And so back to the sky he would go, smoke curling up into it and staining the blue with acrid grey. 

Techno watches until the pyre is down to embers. He sits in the snow and watches from afar, until the smoke is gone and the coals are cold and the body is ash. He sits even then, hand to his head, listening as the voices rage. He lets his anger build.

There’s a splash of cool wetness against his cheek. Techno lifts his head up as it starts to snow, the heavens gently weeping when Techno cannot. He sits until he’s shivering and soaked, until the anger and fire in him is too much to handle anymore. The voices rage. There’s a resounding call for blood, a battle cry, hints and whispers of an idea he’d had since he’d seen the bloody pairs of footprints and the crumpled form of his mentor-- father--  _ friend _ .

Technoblade does not grieve. He does not dig graves. He takes his grief and molds it into something familiar, something he can grasp and take hold of and wield like a weapon. He brews potions meticulously. The wooden floors dry and the blood peels up, flakes away from the wood, and Techno pays it no mind. He brews, he enchants, he preps.

Phil is dead. Trust is for fools. Communication for cowards. Techno will never speak to anyone ever again. 

Someone will pay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahhaah im not sorry :) leave a kudos/comment if you enjoyed, and make sure to subscribe for updates! this updates almost every day!


	36. your mother-in-law(?) is a menace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tubbo goes for a midnight visit. he gets caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm on that beetwt brainrot. inspired by a comic made by the lovely [zinnia!](https://twitter.com/panberries/status/1365343242510872578) be sure to check it out!

Snow crunches under his feet, as soft as the fur lying warm around his neck.

Tubbo’s gotten accustomed to the cold. He can remember hating the snow when he was younger, back when things were simpler-- he’d cry if forced to go out in it, hating stepping in the pure white mess of it all. He liked how it looked well enough, peering out of a house’s cozy windows, but muddling in the middle of it? No thanks. He’d cry for ages if he had to go out and be cold, moreso if Tommy threw a snowball at him (which was a common occurrence). He’d hated snow for a long, long time, until he’d grown up a little bit.

Surveying the area that would become Snowchester changed his opinions on the snow a little bit.

For one, it never really stormed in colder areas. Sure, there was snowfall, but it was quiet. No patter of rain against the windows, no thunder sending him into a mild panic every time lightning struck. It was entirely quiet. 

Tubbo likes the quiet now, more than ever. 

Stars twinkle in the night sky above him as he makes his way across the silent tundra, breath billowing out in front of him as he treads carefully. He’d come here through the Nether-- it made the trip shorter by far, and while he’d shed his Snowchester jacket while traversing that path, he’d immediately thrown it back on as he stepped out of the portal far in the north. He’d been here before, a few times. Once as part of a laughable army, the second and third times a hesitant and half-unwelcome guest in the home of a good friend. 

Speaking of, Tubbo’s nearly there now.

He hadn’t been able to sleep tonight, shuffling around the perimeter of Snowchester, mind flitting with ideas and thoughts and energy. He wanted to talk to someone-- someone in particular, and no matter how many messages he’d sent on the communicator now lying against his hip, Ranboo hadn’t responded. So Tubbo had taken the matter into his own hands and headed out to find him. 

His home was the first reasonable place, despite it being in the middle of what Tubbo thinks he should call “enemy territory.” But he’s not too concerned with enemies at the moment, so he just keeps a mild eye out as he comes up on two cozy-looking cottages. The lanterns are lit inside still, and a few are hanging around the place, but as he leans against a snow-covered rock and surveys the area, nothing moves. The tundra is quiet and cold and asleep. 

“Maybe they’re out on a trip,” Tubbo reasons out loud to himself, peeking up farther over the rock, catching sight of a corner of Ranboo’s home in the side of a cliff, just over the mountain. He hums, pushing himself up on his tiptoes. “I don’t think they’re home,” he mumbles again, letting out a puff of chilly breath. It billows in front of him, like a cloud hanging in the sky. “Thank goodness.” 

Something thumps behind him.

“You sure?”

Tubbo no longer likes the cold. Icicles drip from his heart as he shifts slightly, neck cracking as he turns. Phil is the first face he sees, bundled up against the cold, hat tipped down just enough to cast a shadow over his eyes. Beside him, looming, is Technoblade. Great, Tubbo thinks to himself, pressing his back against the cold stone and ignoring how a bit of snow drips down his neck, sending shivers down his spine. He’s not frightened, per say, just… intimidated. Considering Tubbo doesn’t often carry many weapons around, and how he’s very clearly trespassing on land where he is surely not wanted.

“Why are you here, Tubbo?” Phil asks, arms crossed, still looming. Techno shifts on his feet and Tubbo lifts a hand, watching as both of their gazes snap to it. He just brushes his hair out of his face, ignoring how one of his gloves gets caught on his horns-- that’s just embarrassing. He tugs his glove off, shoving it in a pocket.

His mind flits to Ranboo. “So, uhm--” he begins, thinking of how even to explain-- “about that--”

“He said,” Slam. A fist in the rock beside him, casually crumbling stone under his fingertips. Techno’s eyes glint. “Why are you here?” 

Tubbo surveys his options here. Option one: lie out of his ass. Option two: run. Neither of those seem very conducive, and he’ll probably just end up getting chased out of the tundra and back to the Nether. Which is very much not how Tubbo was planning his night to go. Irritation rises in him, fierce and roiling, and after a second of hesitance, he opens his mouth.

“Well?” Phil asks, and Tubbo decides to go with an improvised option three.

“ _ RANBOO! _ ” He shrieks, because this is his fault after all. It’s Ranboo’s fault for not answering his communicator, Ranboo’s fault Tubbo’s here, Ranboo’s fault-- well, no, okay that’s about it. 

Phil and Techno exchange a glance, Tubbo squeezing open one eye to watch as they look once at each other, and then back at him. Tubbo just smirks a little as Technoblade raises an eyebrow, as Phil shifts backwards on his feet.

“What are you--” he begins to ask, and then a second later, there’s a bang. Then a thud. Comically they stand there, listening as something clangs to the ground and a lantern is lit inside of Ranboo’s home. Phil’s head snaps to the side, but Techno keeps his eyes firmly on Tubbo, the red glinting slightly. Tubbo gives a tiny wave, triumphant in his attempt at salvation as Ranboo throws open the front door to his house.

“WHAT,” he shouts, deadpan, stumbling out into the snow in what are clearly pajamas and hastily stuffed on snow boots. “--are you yelling about, Tubbo?” He blinks, eyes adjusting slightly, and Tubbo can see the moment Ranboo takes in the situation. Techno and Phil, boxing in Tubbo who is doing his best to look the part of a small and frightened animal. He thinks his horns help, ears too-- lambs are  _ very  _ pitiful, after all. “What are you doing?” Ranboo exclaims, stomping across the snow toward them as Technoblade takes a step back, unboxing Tubbo in. He takes the chance and darts forward, meeting Ranboo halfway. It’s like a balm has been soothed over a burn-- seeing Ranboo is often like that. It settles Tubbo. It makes him feel the opposite of quiet-- not loud, but seen. Ranboo makes him feel seen.

“Don’t shout at me,” he shoots back, confidence slowly coming back in waves. “I’ll divorce you again.” 

“Again?!” Ranboo mutters, dragging a hand over his face, looking tired and irritated but he’s definitely smiling behind his hand. His hair’s up in a bun behind his head. It’s getting so long, Tubbo notes, then pushes the thought aside in favor of arguing back.

“Again,” he promises. “ _ And _ I’ll keep custody of Michael.” 

“You wouldn’t,” Ranboo gasps, and it’s not entirely just dramatics. 

“I would,” Tubbo threatens, a grin spreading over his face. Even as Ranboo argues back with him, empty threats filling the air with their bickering, he feels seen.

\----

Behind them, still standing next to a crumbling rock and wearing hastily shoved-on jackets, Phil and Techno watch.

“You see them too, right?” Phil asks, and Techno knows he’s referring to the rings blatantly on Tubbo’s finger, on Ranboo’s. How hadn’t he noticed before? The obsidian sits comfortably around Ranboo’s left ring finger, and Tubbo’s is iron, but it’s clear what they are. The conversation doesn’t just hint at it, either-- they’d shouted about divorce not a moment ago.

“When--” Phil begins, a question on the tip of his tongue, but Techno just throws a hand in the air. He’s fucking tired. The government’s arguing with his renter on the front lawn of their home, it is one in the morning, and Techno is too tired to argue this point out. With any hope, Tubbo will still be here in the morning and Techno can finish scaring him off and away. 

“I’m going back to bed,” he says, cutting Phil off. “It’s too damn early for this.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you enjoyed, make sure to leave a kudos/comment! and check out my other work!!!


	37. 5+1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> five times tommy refused to admit he was hurting and the one time he didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is not a happy fic.

Tommy’s okay.

No, really, he is.

1.

They’re walking across the SMP together, hand-in-hand, the day after Dream had been locked in prison. Everything felt fucking wonderful. Tommy is on top of the fucking world. He’s got Dream’s OP shit, Tubbo is alive, Tommy is alive, and everyone had come to their aid when he’d needed them. He’s riding the high of victory, and it tastes sweet.

“Do you think I could get bees in Snowchester?” Tubbo’s asking, squeezing Tommy’s fingers between his own as they roam the lands around, marching through the SMP territory and skirting the edge of the L’Manhole. There’s the occasional flicker of red on the outskirts of his vision, but Tommy is 100% fine right now and nothing can bring him down. He’s with his best friend. He’s alive. They’re having a good time, debating whether or not bees could survive the chilly temperatures of Tubbo’s new home.

They’re so engrossed in conversation, Tommy doesn’t even really pay attention to where they’re going. At least, not until they stumble out of the treeline and Tommy glances up, eyes panning over a long expanse of grassy field.

An abandoned and dusty house sits in the middle, exploded from the inside. A crooked sign.  _ Safe Haven. _

His chest tightens.

“Tommy?” Tubbo’s voice is faint as he tries to get a grip on his breath, as his fingers go all trembly and frightened in Tubbo’s grasp. They’re warm though, Tubbo swinging around and clutching Tommy’s hand to his chest and staring at him, tugging him down and forcing his gaze away from the open grassland and exploded house. “Tommy! You alright?”

Tommy swallows. He shoves back the rising dread in his throat, that had been crawling up his spine and paralyzing him, and forces himself to nod. To smile again. 

“Just fine,” he promises, watching as Tubbo’s face goes from confused to knowing. His best friend glances behind them, at the ruins of a place they’d once frolicked in, and then gently nudges him backwards.

“I think we should go rob Eret,” he says lightly, and Tommy is grateful for the change in subject. He’s fine, after all. A bug had flown into his throat or something. He allows Tubbo to drag him away, thinking of celebration cake and sweet honeyed bread for dinner tonight. Yeah. He’s fine.

  
  


2.

The next time it happens, Tommy is much less upbeat than before.

He’s also alone. That doesn’t help. He’d just gone to get some more iron for his enderchest-- he wasn’t running low, or anything, but mining soothed his anxieties, just running around by himself and exploring a little. Not like there wasn’t much he hasn’t explored already. He just likes the thrill. Fighting mobs was a good way to get out his energy as well, keep his fingers from shaking whenever he got too-pent up. He liked mining. It was fun.

This is not fun.

Tommy had entered the cave and hit a piece of iron ore in the wall, only for gravel to collapse above him. He’d managed to throw himself to the side in just enough time, only a few grains trickling over and onto his leg that he’d shaken off with ease. The only problem was that he’d thrown his torch in his panicky state, and now it was gone, smouldering under piles and piles of gravel that blocked his way out of the mine. The darkness was suffocating-- it reached into Tommy with tendrils of inky black terror, crawling down his throat and eyes and nose, entering him in any way it could. Blindly, in a panic, he throws his arms out to the side and only meets stone. He stumbles backwards, hoping the cave might open up into a bigger area where he could calm down, could brush the gravel off his shirt and control his breathing. All he finds is more stone walls, trapping him in as gravel shifts and slides in front of him.

He’s stuck. 

Tommy’s breathing picks up, chest tight and heavy, and he forces himself to his knees. He’s fine, he tells himself, fingers scrabbling on the floor, finding the hilt of his pickaxe. He gives it a few tugs, more gravel trickling down onto his shoes, and he grimly ignores how his chest is getting tighter and tighter with each breath he takes. There’s hardly room to swing his pickaxe in this tiny black space, but he does. He swings it over, and over, and over--

Gravel dusts across his face, trickles down his arms, makes it hard to breathe. He’s in a small dark room, crowded with friends. He’s under a piston, trapped, laughter echoing in his ears. He’s sitting in a small room under Ghostbur’s Logsteadshire, hastily hiding precious items. He’s--

He--

He’s pushing his way out of the ground, dirt beneath his hands and staining his face as he gasps into the midday sun. He’s in the middle of some sort of field-- that just makes the panic rising in him higher as he hauls himself out of the tunnel he’d dug upwards, dirt under his fingernails and skin ashy from both panic and gravel dust. His pickaxe is thrown to the side, forgotten, as Tommy curls into a ball on the grass and forces himself to calm his breathing down.

Eventually, he picks himself up. He leaves his pickaxe in the grass. He’s fine.

He doesn’t go mining again.

3.

“Just jump!” 

Tubbo’s voice rings out from underneath him, and Tommy laughs, toeing the edge of the stone and rock. The water is clearly below them, shining in the midday sun, and Tubbo’s treading water to the side. He’d jumped first, without Tommy even having to prompt it-- just been so excited he’d thrown himself in. 

“Come on!” Tubbo calls. “The water’s nice!”

Tommy glances up at the hot sun, then back down at the water. At Tubbo’s face. For a second, the water turns red-- a trick of the light, or maybe his eyes or something, but it doesn’t change the fact that he reels backwards, the stench of sulfur suffocating him for a moment. Dammit. They’d been having a good day. It had been so fucking hot all week and Tommy had finally convinced Tubbo to go swimming and now he’s breaking down, thinking of lava and heights and--

“Tommy?” Tubbo’s voice floats up, and there’s splashing. “You alright?”

Tommy grits his teeth. He’s fine. He glances back up at the cliffside, then shoves himself forward and floats through the air. He’s flying-- like when he has a trident, although now his inventory’s empty except for a few blocks and a water bucket. Just in case. Below him, the water ripples. Red, blue, red, blue. 

The splash when he enters is cool and refreshing. He allows himself one moment of floating peace in the water, then swims up, laughter in his ears as he emerges and shakes his head. Droplets fly, and Tubbo snorts with laughter. Tommy laughs too. He’s fine.

4.

Boom.

The earth rattles under his feet and Tommy’s on the floor in a heartbeat.

His head is covered by his arms, skin pressing tightly against his hair, breath coming hot and heavy into the worn dirt below him. He’s in his house, and he’s panicking. He’s been panicking a lot, lately. 

He’s not sure what to make of it.

The initial wave of fright passes in a moment, especially as the explosion fades into nothingness and Tommy is left in silence. There was only one-- probably a single bundle of TNT then, nothing too major. Nothing that would leave his ears bleeding for days afterwards, would leave him missing a part of his hearing and without an older brother. 

Nope. This is just one little bundle of TNT. Nothing to see here, folks.

His breathing has yet to calm down as he storms outside, swirling around in a circle, eyes scanning the horizon-- there. A trail of smoke in the distance, and he doesn’t hesitate to storm his way forward and follow the paths to it. There’s a crater there, and Tommy’s of right enough mind that he doesn’t topple into it or immediately freeze up at the sight of it. No, he goes in yelling. 

“What the hell!” He cries, watching as a startled Puffy swings around. “People live around here, you know! Fucking doing their business! What the fuck are you doing?”

“Tommy!” Puffy cries, reaching out with arms outstretched, and then stopping immediately as Tommy flinches back. He’s not really in the mood for hugs, right now. He’s pissed. “Oh, uh. Right! I was…” She trails off, turning to stare at the crater and remains of what was clearly a structure. Tommy crosses his arms, taps his toes, anger rising. He’s about to shout again when she turns, a grin on her face that’s too gleeful to be genuine. “I was doing a bit of housekeeping! You know what they call me! Janitor Puffy.”

“Yeah, well, Janitor Puffy,” Tommy snaps, and why is he being so mean right now? It’s not even-- it’s not even close to his house. Why is he so upset? “Keep it fucking down next time. And put some dirt over the hole for Christ’s sake. It’s fucking unsightly is what it is.”

“Will do, sir yes sir,” Puffy says, saluting shortly. Then, a moment later. “Are you.. Okay?”

Tommy is seething. But Puffy is kind, and he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings, so he just grits out: “I’m fine.”

Stomping away has never felt more vengeful. Even as he does, as his heart rate slows and he creeps back into his hobbit house and into the storage room, as he crawls into a corner and cries as the adrenaline wears off-- Tommy insists on it. He’s fine.

5.

The Big Innit Hotel is finished and Tommy is elated.

Jack Manifold, his singular employee, is helpful as shit. He’d gone mining when Tommy had asked him to (strip mines are a no go, thanks) and gotten the diamonds they’d needed for an upgrade. It’s great. Despite the fact that Jack in general makes Tommy’s skin crawl, he’s a good helping man and Tommy is fucking excited to get shit started. They’re finishing up for the rest of the day, Tommy halfway into the chest, sorting the last bit of spruce wood he’d picked up that day, when the front doors to the hotel slam open.

“Tommy!” Jack’s voice echoes, and Tommy hides his flinch by whirling upwards and glancing over his shoulder, raising a brow. “Give me the wood, big man!”

Give me. Give me. Give me.

“Who’s the boss here?” Tommy asks, slamming the chest to hide the way his fingers are shaking. Jack laughs, making his way over, seemingly unbothered as he nudges Tommy aside and rummages for a piece of wood in the chest, eyes going slightly vacant as he brings up his inventory. It's the stupidest thing to get his heart racing, and yet.

“You are, I know,” Jack says. “Was just hoping we could have a better bossman-employee relationship, since I’ve been so helpful.”

“Right,” Tommy says, and the words echo. Give me. Give me. Give me--

_ your armor. _

“Thanks!” Jack says a moment later, crafting bench under one arm as he hops over the desk and disappears down into the hastily carved basement. “See ya!” 

If he had noticed Tommy’s quiet, uninterested responses, well. That’s because it’s normal and Tommy is fine. 

“No problemo,” Tommy says an undetermined amount of time later. His hands are shaking for some reason. But he’s fine!

Maybe… maybe he should deal with this. 

An idea floats through his mind. A stupid one, but… viable.

\+ 1.

Tommy’s head slams against the obsidian, stars blurring in his vision as his hands curl up near his side, as his throat goes raw and the lava in front of him burbles. Nothing had gone right. He’d thought-- he’d thought that visiting Dream in prison would close everything off. Would settle his nerves and make him feel better. He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected a fucking security breach, and now he’s stuck.

He’s stuck in a small, dark room, with a doorway full of lava, and Dream. Dream, who is hovering in the background and staring at Tommy with stoney eyes. 

“Stop looking at me,” Tommy snaps, and he can hear a sigh, and a shuffle, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder.

He doesn’t hesitate. He turns around, fist already clenched in a swing as he lands a solid punch just against Dream’s jaw. The  _ crack  _ is satisfying. The blood dripping from his nose moreso. Tommy barely registers the pain in his wrist and knuckles as he shakes his hand out, watching Dream stagger backwards and raise a hand to his face. His fingers come back bloody, and Tommy has to remind himself not to take any steps backwards into the lava that is pouring down just behind him, heating up his back and making the anger in his chest feel cool in comparison.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he hisses, watching as Dream wipes at his nose, pinches it carefully. “Don’t come near me, don’t touch me, we might be stuck together but I am not talking to you. I am not looking at you. I don’t care what you have to say after everything you fucking did to me, you fucking-- you fucking psychopath.”

“Oh, come on Tommy,” Dream mumbles, voice nasally and ragged as he holds his hand over his face. 

“Don’t,” Tommy breathes, curling his hand up again. “I said. Don’t.”

“We were friends!” Dream cries, splaying his free hand in the air. “I don’t see why you’re so angry with me, this is great!” 

“This is-- this-- you are--” Tommy splutters for a moment, the anger rising in him and more than that, the fear. The complete and utter terror as he realizes for the thousandth time that he is stuck in a tiny obsidian box with Dream. “I am not your friend,” he spits out, fists clenching at his sides. “I am the farthest thing from a friend you will ever have, you manipulative bastard.”

“Tommy,” Dream says, and it’s in that sickly sweet tone, the one that makes Tommy’s stomach roil. “We’ll have fun--”

“Shut UP!” Tommy shouts, and then again: “Shut up! Shut up! I don’t want to fucking hear it! You are the worst person I have ever met, and that’s saying fucking something, because I’ve met a lot of people.”

Like a tsunami, his thoughts flood freely.

“You made my life a living hell,” Tommy shouts, voice rising as he stalks forward. Dream, taking a step back, face still stained red. “You made me so fucking upset and angry and sad, and you were the one who exiled me, really. Not Tubbo. You did. And you made it the worst thing of my entire life. I can’t be normal now, because of you! I can’t do normal things! You blew up L’Manberg!!! Three! Times! You made me a horrible person-- I fucking hate the person I am when I’m around you, meek and shit, but you liked it, didn’t you?” A breath, a pause, another step forward. “You liked your little clapping fucking monkey, right yeah? Who threw his shit in a hole when he was told. I freeze up every time someone says those words to me, you know. I get terrified of the dark. You’ve made me into this fucking-- into this shell, and I was just starting to get myself back, I was getting myself back after we locked you away, and now this, I’m--”

Tommy laughs, lifting a hand to run it through his hair. His laugh is not a happy one.

“You fucking  _ traumatized  _ me,” he says, laughing again. “You ruined my past, Dream, you made me so fucking sick of myself. You ruined my past, but I will not let you ruin my future.”

“Tommy--”

“I said shut up!” His breathing is coming erratically again, and it takes Tommy a moment to calm himself down. Then again. “You traumatized me.” Again. “You did this to me.” 

There’s silence. 

Dream snuffles, pulling his fingers away from his nose, studying the blood on them. They leave smears when he wipes them on his pants. Tommy waits, chest heaving. It almost feels… it feels good, admitting it to someone. Even if it’s Dream, even if he’s told Tubbo before about his struggles. He’d never been… truly open with himself. 

It feels good to admit that he’s hurting. Sucks that it’s in this position.

“Oh, Tommy,” Dream says a second later, still clearly clogged up. “We’re gonna have fun.” 

Tommy’s stomach roils. Above them, there’s another explosion. He flinches.

He’s not fine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rip tommy "theseus" careful danger kraken minecraft-innit. may you rest in peace. hope ur partying w MD big man
> 
> if you enjoyed, make sure to leave a kudos/comment! i spedran this a while ago and am posting it unfinished so like. blugh.


	38. execution scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> techno visits snowchester. tubbo isn't sure what they are.

Tubbo can’t remember the last time he was in the same room with Technoblade, without either of them dying or arguing.

Maybe it was Pogtopia. That sounds about right. Before that, he’d hardly seen the man at all despite calling him something to do with brotherhood. Then the SMP had come and Tommy and Wilbur had pulled him along with them into L’Manberg’s creation, and then down into the pit of war and fighting. And he had gone along with it. Died for them. Spied for them. Technoblade had been there, yes, in Pogtopia with his potatoes and armor and sword-sharpening wheel stone, yet Tubbo hadn’t known him at all. Until the festival. 

There, staring him dead in the eyes as Techno loaded the crossbow, he thought maybe he understood the best out of anyone there. 

Technoblade and Tubbo’s relationship revolved around death. It was a dance, a tango, a waltz, spinning around the epicenter of violence and destructive tension that held them at a necessary distance. Their relationship is like a nuke, Tubbo thinks. Careful wiring, explosive cores, a delicate transportation across the ice until it met it’s fate in the cold wind of a tundra, burrowing deep into the grass and shattering everything in a hundred-meter radius. The toxic radiation that spread out from the site infected everyone-- Tommy, Tubbo himself, Techno. Even Wilbur. The citizens of L’Manberg. No one was spared, those destructive isotopes changing the very shape of their DNA. They were a family forged in blood and fire and war and radiation.

Which leads them to now, sitting in the warmth of Tubbo’s Snowchester home. It’s a surprise, really-- Techno had shown up here searching for Ranboo of all people, a fierce look on his face when Tubbo had opened the door and blinked. It had been an odd juxtaposition of power-- Tubbo in his fucking pajamas, Techno in full netherite gear and a trident menacing against the doorframe. Tubbo isn’t really frightened of anything anymore, so he’d simply answered honestly: yes, Ranboo was here. No, he wasn’t in danger. As he so graciously points out, stepping to the side and allowing Technoblade to come into the house, Ranboo dozing on the corner bed with Michael piled on top of him.

As Ranboo had woken up, startled by Techno’s presence, the story had started to reveal itself. A backyard house in disarray, scattered footprints around the yard, leading towards the SMP proper, and Ranboo’s habit of sleepwalking. 

Curiously, Tubbo notes down the panic that is slowly dissipating from Techno’s shoulders. He hovers in the background, petting Michael’s head slowly and carefully, twisting the iron ring around his finger as Ranboo shuffles around, explaining to Techno how he’d woken up in the SMP and made his way, exhausted, to Tubbo’s. He’d crashed there for a few days, tired. 

Phil was out on a trip to the north. Tubbo added that to the list of things that were starting to make sense about this hasty visit. 

Which leaves them here, Tubbo sitting against one wall, Techno leaning on the other. Michael is back in bed, curled up under blankets. They all had avoided  _ that  _ conversation like the plague. None of them wanted to face it right now, clearly, and so they didn’t. Ranboo’s in the basement, collecting his armor and items from where Tubbo had thrown them as Ranboo had sleepily sat and let him take them off.

The trapdoor thuds, breaking the silent tension that had been growing in the room. “That’s it,” Ranboo says gently, brushing off his forearms and then buffing a spot on his armor carefully. “Alrighty!” 

Tubbo shifts to stand, ignoring Techno’s glance as he does, and Ranboo gives Michael’s warm lump a pat. Then he comes to Tubbo-- leans down, Tubbo leaning up, and their foreheads bump.

“See you in a couple,” Ranboo says, and Tubbo hooks their pinkies together.

“Promise,” he demands, and Ranboo just snickers.

“Promise,” he says, and then he and Techno are headed for the door. Ranboo’s out into the cool snow first, and despite them not having exchanged more than fifteen words, Techno hesitates. He turns. The door is open, letting in the cool air, and Tubbo is not wearing socks. His toes curl into the wood of the floor, and a hand lands on his face.

Fingers cover his burn scars from his second death, warm and calloused from years of work. A golden ring glints on one of them, and Tubbo blinks one eye shut. The one that’s blurry on a good day, the scars echoing over his face and making his skin tight.

“I’m sorry,” Techno says in this brief moment. 

Tubbo’s hand reaches up slowly, of its own accord, and gently settles on the taller man. He inhales, lets his thumb follow the line of an anvil, skin stitched together by the virtue of magic that perhaps, took a bit of soul in return for its service.

“I’m sorry too,” he echoes, and Techno’s face flutters for a moment. They stand there, radiation flowing between both of them, shaping their DNA and in this second, they’re more similar than different. At least for now, it’s easy to understand the other. 

Tubbo bumps his head gently against Techno’s palm. Techno does the same before pulling away, and stepping out into the cold. Even after the twangs of tridents have faded, even after the water has settled and the snow has accumulated in footprints, Tubbo stands in the door and lets the cold brush across his face. The scars stay warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii im so out of it today i hope yall enjoy
> 
> also ranboo and tubbo r platonic >:( the headbutting thing is a goat thing bc of tubbo horns. ty for my tedtalk


	39. hostage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they're cornered. technoblade grasps any chance he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was based off a comic i saw on twitter!!! if anyone has the link let me know bc i lost it :(
> 
> i miss tommy and techno teamup. have this, sadge

Everything is going wrong.

Techno had said yes, for some stupid, idiotic reason. Techno had told Tommy yes, when he should’ve told Tommy no, and now they’re here. Stuck. In L’Manberg. They’d gotten spotted-- or at least, Tommy had. Tommy had been spotted by Quackity, who had thrown a story about a funeral and a devastated best friend his way. Then Quackity had called Tubbo over, and then Techno’s invisibility potion had run out. Their stealth mission had gone to shit, and now they were stuck. At an impasse, with nowhere to go. 

Tommy is panicking. 

“What do we do, Blade, what do we do--” He’s pacing, feet hitting the stone floor and sword dragging over the rocky ground unevenly. Techno winces every time it bangs into the rocks, slipping in and out of the dips as the enchantments glitter over it’s netherite skin. His mind whirls-- they’re cornered, evidently, and even now he can hear voices down the hall. The only way out is up, really. “My trident doesn’t have the right enchants, maybe you can--”

“Fly us out,” Techno says, and it’s not a bad idea.

Down the hall, someone is shouting.  _ Down here! There he is!  _

Techno stares at Tommy, and then claps a hand on his shoulder. “Do you trust me?”

Wordlessly, Tommy nods.

“Good. Take off your armor, keep it in your inventory.” Those words, which not even a week ago had caused Tommy to break down and panic in Techno’s living room, now only seem to jar him somewhat. He takes off his armor without hesitation, however, a fact that pierces at Techno’s heart. But he throws that aside, instead, focusing on this plan. He grabs Tommy’s arm-- _ so skinny, so small, protect him _ \-- and waits.

A moment later, the trio that call themselves the Butcher Army bursts through the hall door and into the room they’re trapped in. Techno roughly pulls Tommy to his chest, sword at his throat.

“Stop.” He says, in his most threatening voice. It’s a good voice. He practices this voice.

_ \--blood for the blood god-- make it rain red-- E-- get them! get them!-- what are you doing?-- _

The trio freezes. His internal commentators get slightly louder, then dim when Techno speaks again.

“If you take another step forward,” he says, and he keeps his voice low. “You’ll be hosting a real funeral.” Under his grip, Tommy is shaking. The terror on his face is likely not acting, but that’s a problem for after they escape. Techno needs to find water. He needs to find some now, and get them the hell out. 

In front of them, Quackity is shaking from the force of his anger. Fundy looks determined, but frightened. Tubbo looks shocked.

His eyes are dull, Techno notes. Nothing like they’d once been. He supposes it comes with the burden of government. 

“Step aside,” he says, and he knows he’s threatening. When no one moves, he practically barks the words. “ _ Move it _ !” 

“Move,” says Tubbo, and they part. 

Techno feels a little like Moses, sweeping through the Red Sea that parted simply at his command. Only instead he is a monster in their eyes, and they are only three teenagers, worn down and sharpened by the blades of war. There is no grandeur in their escape, in the end. Techno worms their way out of a tight spot and the moment he spots a puddle of water outside the tunnel they’d trapped themselves in, he’s in it, and Tommy is clinging onto his neck and his trident’s in hand and they’re gone.

He tries not to think about Tubbo’s haunted look, or the sound of Quackity spitting on him as they passed.

Techno finds the ocean, and they go and go and go until the water turns to ice and they can’t anymore. When he lets Tommy down, he doesn’t even bother trying to stand, instead crumpling to his knees and shaking.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, and Techno holds his wrists and whispers fierce apologies. “You--”

“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” Techno says. 

_ Protect him _ \-- says the voices. These are the only ones he’ll give in to without hesitation. 

“You put your fuckin’ sword to my throat,” Tommy gasps, wrenching his hands out of Techno’s grasp and sucking in a breath through his tears. “You-- you threatened them, me, why did you--”

“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” Techno says, and Tommy’s shivering, so he slowly unclips his thick cape and swings it around his littlest brother. The weight of it seems to help, Tommy’s eyes focusing slightly and fingers digging into the soft fabric. “I promise. Never. Ever. On my life.” 

Tommy sits, and shakes, and eventually lets Techno pull him to his feet again to start the long walk home. 

They’re quiet for the most part, but about halfway there, Tommy speaks up again. He’s stopped crying by now, tears long dried up and frozen in the wind of the tundra.

“Techno,” he says. “I don’t think that was the right call.” Techno’s ear twitches, but he doesn’t look down. Tommy continues after a second. “We escaped, but now they’ll hate you, thinking you took me hostage.”

Techno sighs. “Tommy, they already hate me.” This is fact. He stops walking, turns his head to look down at him, and locks eyes. “But if they knew your true intentions--” flashes of L’Manberg float through his head unbidden, the land blown to shreds, an execution stand and an anvil-- “I won’t be the only one on the chopping block.”

They stand there for a long minute, until the cold permeates his sweater enough to make him shiver. Just the slightest. Tommy breaks his gaze not a second later, and they forge on through the snow.

“Right,” he says, and the conversation is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you enjoyed, leave a kudos/comment! it always makes my day!


End file.
